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157 50 Cents 

Xovcll’s Untcrnaticnal Series 


In the Heart of the 
Storm 


BY 

MAXWELL GRAY 

Author of “The Silence of Dean Maitland.” 


Authorised Edition 


NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 

Every work in this series is published by arrangement with the author. 


Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $15.00. April 6, 1891. 
Entered at New York Post Office as second-class matter. 


LOVELLS 


INTERNATIONAL SERIES 

OF 

MODERN NOVELS. 


The new works published in this excellent Series, Semi-"Weekly, are always 
the first issued in this country. 

Every issue is printed from new, clear electrotype plates, on fine paper 
and bound in attractive paper covers of original design. 


No. Ots. 

1. Miss Eyon op Eton Court. 

Katherine S. Macquoid 30 

2. Hart as Maturin. H. F. 

Lester ••••« «••• 50 

3. Tales of To-Day. G. R. Sims 30 

4. English Life Seen Through 

Yankee Eyes. T. C. Craw- 
ford — 50 

5. Penny Lancaster, Farmer. 

Mrs. Bellamy 50 

6. Under False Pretences. 

Adeline Sergeant 50 

7. In Exchange for a Soul. 

Mary Linskill 30 

8. Ouilderoy. Ouida 30 

9. St. Cuthbert’s Tower. Flor- 

ence Warden 30 

10. Elizabeth Morley. Kather- 

ine S. Macquoid 30 

11. Divorce ; or Faithful and 

Unfaithful Margaret Lee 50 

12. Long Odds. Hawley Smart. 30 

13. On Circumstantial Evidence 

Florence Marry at 30 

14. Miss Kate; or Confessions 

of a Caretaker. Rita — 30 

15. A Vagabond Lover. Rita... 20 

16. The Search for Basil Lynd- 

hurst. Rosa N. Carey — 30 
17- The Wing of the Azrael 

Mona Caird 30 

18. The Fog Princess. F. Warden 30 

19. John Herring. S. Baring- 

Gould 50 

20. The Fatal Phryne. F. C. 

Philips and C.J. Wills 30 

21. Harvest. John S. Winter. . . 30 

22. Mehalah. S. Baring-Gould. . 50 

23. A Troublesome Girl. “ The 

Duchess ” 30 

24. Derrick Vaughan, Novelist 

Edna Lyall 30 

25. SophyCarmine. John Strange 

Winter 30 

26. The Luck of the House. 

Adeline Sergeant 30 

27. The Pennycomequicks. S. 

Baring-Gould 50 

28. Jezebel’s Friends. Dora 

Russell 30 

29. Comedy of a Country House. 

Julian Sturgis 30 

30. The Piccadilly Puzzle. 

Fergus Hume 30 


No. Cts. 

31. That Other Woman. Annie 

Thomas 30 

32. The Curse of Carne's Hold 

G. A. Henty 30 

33. Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. 

Tasma...-. 30 

34. A Life Sentence. Adeline 

Sargeant 30 

35. Kit Wyndham. F. Barrett.. 30 

36. The Tree of Knowledge. 

G. M. Robins 30 

37. Roland Oliver. J. McCarthy 30 

38. Sheba. Rita 30 

39. Sylvia Arden. O. Crawfurd 30 

40. Young Mr. Ainslie’s Court- 

ship. F. C. Philips 30 

41. The Haute Noblesse. Geo. 

Manville Fenn 30 

42. Mount Eden. F Marryat.. 30 

43. Buttons. John S. Winter... 30 

44. Nurse Revel’s Mistake. 

Florence Warden 30 

45. Arminell. S. Baring-Gould. 50 

46. The Lament of Dives. Wal- 

ter Besant 30 


47. Mrs. Bob. John S. Winter. . 30 

48. "Was Ever "Woman in this 

Humor Wooed. C. Gibbon. 30 

49. The Mynn’s Mystery. Geo. 


Manville Fenn 30 

50. IIedri. Helen Mathers 30 

51. The Bondman. Hall Caine.. 30 

52. A Girl of the People. L. T. 

Meade 30 

53. Twenty Novellettes. By 

Twenty Prominent Novelists 30 

54. A Family Without a Name. 

Jules Verne 30 

55. A Sydney Sovereign. 

Tasma 30 

56. A March in the Ranks. Jes- 

sie Fothergill 30 

57. Our Erring Brother. F. W. 

Robinson . . 30 

58. Misadventure. W. E. Norris 30 

59. Plain Tales from the Hills 

Rudyard Kipling 50 ‘ 

60. Dinna Forget. J. S. Winter 30 

61. Cosette. K. S. Macquoid. . . 30 

62. Master of His Fate. J. Mac- 

laren Cobban 30 

63. A Very Strange Family. F. 

W. Robinson 30 

64. The Kilburns. A. Thomas. 30 


CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OP COVER 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM 




%o VDSL's flnternational Series, IRo. 157 


IN THE HEART OF THE 
STORM 

A TALE OF MODERN CHIVALRY 


BY 


MAXWELL, GRAY 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND,” ETC. 


h 


v 


“ For every battle of the warrior is with confused noise and garments rolled 
in blood, but this with burning and fuel of fire.” 



NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION FLACR 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 


Dante (Babriel IRossettt 


AND 

Sanies Ibinton. 


54 Their ears are deaf to human praise, 
Their lips to mortals mute ; 

But still their words deep echoes raise, 
Their thoughts have endless fruit.” 


“ Those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day; 



IN THE HEART OF THE STORM 


PROLOGUE. 

CHAPTER L 

STILLBROOKE MILL# 

Stillbrooke Mill never looks pleasanter than on a hot sum- 
mer afternoon, when the paved streets of Cleeve reflect a 
blinding sun-glare, and the brick house-fronts give out the 
heat they have been slowly accumulating all the long sunny 
day. Its position at the end of the town gives it a singular 
charm ; it is like an unexpected gleam of romance in a pro- 
saic, toil-worn life. Turning from the principal street, loud 
with rattling wheels, the cries of street-hawkers and yelling boys, 
j r ou pass to stillness beneath the shade of a linden-girdled 
garden wall, which partially surrounds a fine Tudor building 
of gray stone, with tiled gabled roofs and diamond paned 
casements. This is the old grammar-school, which rises above 
the flimsy, fleeting ugliness of the modern street, a silent and 
beautiful witness of a past and prophecy of a future. Thence 
the road falls steeply to a piece of emerald-green still water, 
beyond which the translucent golden greens of a grove climb- 
ing the opposite hill are even fresher and more liquid than 
the tints of the polished mill-stream, while the glowing of 
sun-steeped turf through the tree-trunks, and the soft mass- 
ing of bright foliage against the pure blue sky, form a most 
restful contrast to the arid streets whence they can be seen. 

A little way back from the road, on the town side of the 
bridged expanse into which the stream widens at the bottom 
of the hill, there stood, many years ago, a stone-built mill and 
house ; an undershot wheel turned drowsily to a drowsy mu- 
sic in the stillness, the brown roof-tiles were mellowed, the 
gray walls whitened, the trees in the garden and those by 


s 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


the roadside slightly powdered by a drifting mist of floating 
meal. 

There was about Stillbrooke Mill a genial publicity which 
opened one’s heart to it. The fact of the high road having 
been carried straight through its ground and over its broad- 
ened stream, in some measure accounted for its openness and 
absence of walls, but only in part, for there was no reason 
why, though the stream was open for the convenience of the 
town water-carts and all the cows in the neighborhood, the 
wide space in front of the mill, where the fowls walked at 
their ease and the pigeons fluttered down from the dove-cot 
above to dispute the grain with them, and the mealy wagons 
stood for loading and unloading, should have opened unwalled 
upon the highroad as it did. All must yield to the inexorable 
logic of facts, but Stillbrooke Mill yielded gracefully, and op- 
posed no further barrier between itself and the public road 
than a large broad-leaved plane-tree, beneath which was a 
bench, where many weighty subjects had been discussed 
by the present miller, Matthew Meade, and his forerunners. 
A carved stone let into the wall above the second story bore 
in antique figures the date 1650, which made it nearly two 
centuries old on this summer afternoon. It was very hot. 
The sturdy horses attached to the wagon which was being 
laden with sacks of flour, winked their eyes, drooped their 
heads, and slept peacefully ; the men attaching the sacks to 
the crane above had discarded their waistcoats and were 
thinking of the amber charms of a glass of ale ; Matthew 
Meade pushed his cap far back upon his grizzled head and 
stood in the most draughty spot he could find, with his sleeves 
rolled up and his shirt open on his chest, while directing the 
work ; one of the sleek mill cats slept in a tight coil on the 
low stone parapet between the yard and the water ; the house- 
dog had left his kennel and stretched himself with hanging 
tongue and exhausted mien on the coolest accessible stone ; 
the mill-wheel seemed half-asleep as it turned to its lulling 
music ; the sunshine slept on the garden and house, it steeped 
the flowers and grass in a trance-like stillness, and dissolved it- 
self in golden languors among the broad leaves of the spread- 
ing plane-tree; the depths of the pale blue sky seemed clouded 
with excess of sleeping light ; the delicate drooping boughs 
of the mighty willow which grew on the further bank of the 
stream in the meadow, scarcely stirred their pale feathery 
leaves in the charmed stillness. 

At the foot of the great willow, where the sunshine poured# 
full upon him and clothed the grass about him with glory, 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


0 


a sturdy boy of nine lay and basked, his great dark-gray eyes 
gazing into the infinite blue sky-depths above him, holding a 
ripe crimson apple into which his sharp pearls of teeth bit 
lazily. His brown face bore traces of recent fighting, and 
the brown hand he stretched out to reach another quarrender 
from the heap on the grass, looked as if it had been used in 
battle. 

Near at hand a little girl of three, in a white frock and sun- 
bonnet. was playing wfith flowers and cooing happily to her- 
self, her golden curls shining in the sunlight, as she turned 
with pretty baby gestures and rolled on the sunny grass, 
until her eye was caught by the snowy gleam of a swan sail- 
ing majestically toward the grassy bank. 

The languid grace of the snow-white swan pleased the 
children. Slowly the beautiful creature glided over the still, 
jewel-like water, her proudly arching neck and erected sail- 
like wings repeated with such bright accuracy beneath her 
that the motion of her black oar-like feet was completely hid- 
den, and she seemed to move like a thought in obedience 
solely to her will. The boy beckoned and she approached 
him with wayward dignity, pausing in majestic indecision, 
and then consenting to be coaxed onward again until she 
reached the brink and bowed her head coquettishly to the 
bread in his extended hand, having taken which, she moved 
dream-like away, and brooding pensively over the water, like 
some gentle memory on a quiet heart, passed under the stone 
piers of the bridge, the dark arches of which shadowed and 
engulphed her. 

Philip’s eyes followed her thither and then turned to the 
blue heaven into which the silvery willow leaves pierced, 
while his thought followed the gliding swan and his senses 
were charmed by the brooding warmth of the sunshine and 
the ripe sweetness of the apples. Under the bridge that 
white swan was floating, past the miller’s garden on the 
opposite side of the highway, past an old farm-house of mel- 
low-red brick, past an orchard and a meadow ; perhaps the 
swan went no farther, but Philip’s heart expanded with a 
sort of passion to think how far she might float, had she but 
oars and sails in place of wings and feet, beginning upon the 
sea-ward current of the little familiar Lynn. Then he 
thought of the origin of Lynn, a little pool a few miles 
hence of diamond-clear water, no broader than the length 
of his arm, so still that it seemed solid, but with so vivid a 
.sparkle above its white pebbles that it seemed alive. From 
this clear and liquid sparkle, which lived on, never failing 


10 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


through summer and winter, in some, to him, mysterious 
manner arose the Lynn, a deep trench, flowing stilly through 
lush pasture and edged with meadow-sweet and loosestrife, 
sometimes reflecting the sweet gaze of forget-me-nots, broad- 
ening in musical remonstrance over the rough pebbles of a 
highway, where it bathed the passing feet of cattle and horses, 
narrowing again through meadows, turning-mills, prattling 
through a village, and then flowing through a chain of willow- 
edged mill-ponds, singing its tranquil way to Philip and the 
swan, thence reaching the wharves and the quay where an- 
other stream joined it, and the two currents rolled on to- 
gether bearing vessels upon their united wave to the great 
gray, mysterious sea. A few miles, he could count them 
on his fingers, brought the doubled stream to the sea, and 
once there one might girdle the great globe. 

His heart died at this thought ; the vast, vast world seemed 
within his grasp as he lay there in the sunny stillness and 
longed to be a man. The willows swayed gently above his 
eager face, their trembling shadows shot across it ; the sun 
was passing westward, but how slowly. Some pigeons sailed 
above him, he followed their flight with longing eyes ; swal- 
lows glided by steeped in sunlight, the mill hummed on, 
the child prattled to herself, the scent of mignonette came 
wafted from the garden ; the floating swan was a stately 
ship, bearing Philip to the world’s end ; they seemed to 
be sailing on and on forever, bound to some far, unknown 
Happy Islands ; crimson fruits sent their spicy fragrance 
over the mystic waves, things melted vaguely one into the 
other ; Sinbad, the Koc, the Valley of Diamonds, blended 
with the swan ship and vanished. Philip was fast asleep, 
unconscious alike of his actual blessedness and of that he 
dreamed in the future. 

The willow wrapped him wholly in its gentle shade and 
spread its coolness upon the water, while he slept on with 
even, long-drawn breath, until at last a piercing sound pene- 
trated the balmy mazes of his dreams and he awoke. 

It was the piteous wail of the little girl, accompanied by 
the splash of her body in the water, that had broken his 
charmed dream. Seeing Philip feed the swan from his hand, 
a thing forbidden to her, she wished to do likewise, and see- 
ing her brother’s eyes shut, she crept gradually nearer to the 
edge of the water, looking, like a baby Narcissus, into the 
clear green water, where her flower-wreathed gold aureoled 
face was clearly mirrored. 

"Pitty Jessie! pitty dirl ! ” cooed the tiny daughter of 


ffl THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


11 


Eve, with complacent smiles at her own reflection. But 
the swan, which in the meantime had turned back and 
shot the bridge, caught sight of the little figure and steered 
toward it with a swift, even, gliding motion. Jessie looked 
up, with a cry of joy ; the swan swam back and altered 
the beautiful curves of its neck, gliding with a broadside 
motion which showed the stroke of the black leg beneath 
the beautiful sweep of the wing ; Jessie stretched forward 
over the brink and extended one hand ; the swan, after a 
little majestic dallying, glided up and placed its beak in the 
dimpled pink palm, where it found nothing, and then draw- 
ing back in offended majesty, it shot itself swiftly at the 
child, caught her frock in its beak, and pulled her into the 
water. 

This incident was very pretty to watch, as it was watched 
from the road on the other side of the pond by a boy of twelve 
sitting on a brown cob in the plane-tree shade, where was 
also a bay horse led by a mounted groom. When the splash 
came, he lustily echoed the child’s cry, sprang from his horse, 
ran along a wall by the water close to the mill-race, which he 
leapt, and landed in the meadow just in time to see Philip 
pull the child out of the water and to beat off the angry 
swan, which refused to let go of the skirts it had clutched, 
until the new-comer plied his riding-whip. 

“ Naughty girl ! ” cried Philip, setting her down at a safe 
distance from the edge, and wringing the water from her 
clothes. ‘‘Straight to bed you go, miss, and a good whip- 
ping you deserve.” 

“ Take her in, you young duffer, and have her stripped 
and dried. What’s the good of jawing a kid like that ? ” 
remonstrated the other boy. Taking one of the little girl’s 
hands and bidding the stranger boy take the other, Philip 
trotted her between them over the grass and through a court- 
yard to the kitchen door, faster than her little stumbling feet 
could carry her. 

Having delivered her into the hands of a maid servant, 
Philip made off before he had time to receive the scolding 
he shrewdly suspected to be due, and having reached the 
plane-tree, put his hands in his pockets and whistled with a 
fine affectation of indifference ; he was more slowly followed 
by the stranger, whose services he acknowledged by a brief : 
“ Thank ye.” 

“ I say, you fellow,” said the latter on coming up and observ- 
ing his blackened eyes, “ what have you been up to besides 
letting the baby fall into the pond ? ” 


12 


IX THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Nothing,” replied Philip, loftily; “ I had to thrash a fellow 
this morning, that’s all.” 

“Had you? I dare say. What other poor child have you 
been bullying ? ” 

“ He was a little bigger than you,” said Philip, with a 
scornful glance over him. 

“I like that. As if any fellow of my size wouldn’t scorn 
to touch a kid like you. Go indoors, my dear, and ask your 
mamma for vinegar and brown paper.” 

With such amiable and polite observations, the lads made 
a life-long acquaintance. Boys are like dogs, they walk 
round each other with contemptuous sniffs and growls, and 
after one or two trial snaps and a display of teeth, come 
either to a pitched battle or gracious tail- wagging. 

In this case, luckily for Philip, tail-wagging was the result. 
He was introduced to the brown cob and allowed to mount 
it, the stranger taking Philip’s boat and sculling about the 
pond. Knives were produced and compared, at which stage 
Philip deemed it time to say, “ Who are you, and what’s your 
father ? ” 

“ I’m Claude Medway, and my father’s Sir Arthur Med- 
way,” replied the lad. “Are you the miller’s son? What’s 
your name ? ” 

Philip colored before replying. Only that morning in 
school at catechism he had given his name as “Philip 
Bandal,” and been dumb when pointedly and repeatedly 
told to give only the Christian name. Until that moment, 
it had not struck him as strange that Bandal was his bap- 
tismal and surname in one. 

After school there was a fight in the playground in conse- 
quence of the frequent repetition of the usher’s words, “ But 
Bandal is your surname.” 

It was considered a good fight, and traditions of it still 
linger in Cleeve Grammar School. Blood was shed on both 
sides, and how it would have fared with Philip against his 
older and stronger adversary, but for the untimely appearance 
of the head-master upon the scene and the consequent hasty 
flight of both contending parties, it is impossible to say. 

Perhaps Philip was not very sorry for the interruption, 
when he walked home with the comfortable conscious- 
ness of having given “that great brute Brown” a good 
thrashing, before he was himself pounded into a jelly. 
A secret conviction that the affair might now honorably 
be considered at an end, together with a strong suspi- 
cion that Brown would think differently, made him very 


JiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


IS 


glad to reach the mill, whither Brown would not dare to fol- 
low him. 

“ My name’s Philip Randal, and Mr. Meade, the miller, is 
my father,” he replied defiantly to Claude’s question. 

“How much?” asked Claude, thinking that all three 
names belonged to him. “ Well, you’re a queer little beg- 
gar, names and all. How far are you in Latin ? Do they fag 
at your school? I suppose they are all cads at this.” 

“ What’s a cad ? ” asked Philip. 

“ Oh ! Why, a day-boy that lives in the town.” 

“ Then we are all cads,” returned Philip, cheerfully, “ and I 
ain’t out of Delectus yet. I say, lend us that knife, Med- 
way.” 

“ Pm going to Eton next term,” said Claude, handing him 
the knife. 

“ Where’s that ? ” asked Philip, indifferently, going up to 
the window-frame of the best parlor to try the knife upon it. 

“ Well ! you are a duffer ! ” muttered Claude, revolted at 
Philip’s ignorance, and marching away to re-examine the mill. 

Philip, in the meantime, was absorbed in cutting his ini- 
tials on the frame, and, the windows being open, heard the 
well-known voice of Matthew Meade mingling with the less 
familiar accents of Sir Arthur Medway, heard without hearken- 
ing until something was said which interested him. 

“ The boy is mine, Sir Arthur,” said Mr. Meade’s voice. 
“He was left by his own flesh and blood, and already 
started for the workus when I took him and bred him for my 
own.” 

“ No doubt you are attached to the child, Meade, and of 
course it would be a hard pull to give him up ” 

“I can’t give him up,” the miller broke in, with an agitated 
voice ; “ he’s mine, he’s all I’ve got. I’ve bred him up so far, 
and he’s more to me — I tell ’ee I can't give him up, Sir 
Arthur.” 

“ If you are indeed attached to the child ” 

“ I am, I am,” Meade interposed. 

“You surely would not stand in his light,” continued Sir 
Arthur, gravely, “ consider the advantages you refuse for him.” 

“I liev considered them, Sir Arthur,” replied the miller, 
wiping his hot brow, “ but money isn’t everything, sir. The 
boy looks to me as a father, I’ve taught him so, and somehow 
— I’ve done that much for him, I’ve saved and scraped for 
him — aye, and I mean to save and scrape for him, and I’ll 

bring him up to be a gentleman, please God he could 

say no more in the fulness of his heart. 


14 IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 

Sir Arthur smiled, and looked silently at the rough man in 
his floury miller’s clothes, whose chest was heaving with 
strong feeling ; while the words broke gaspingly from him. 
“ Better than my own blood, better, better.” 

“ These feelings do you credit, Meade,” he said, after some 
wonder as to how the miller proposed to breed'up a gentleman. 
“But you would, I am sure, deeply regret that your affection 
for the boy should spoil his chances in life.” 

“ It won’t, it can’t be,” returned Meade, earnestly. “ What 
do you care for him, sir ? You’ve got yourn, there’s Master 
Claude and the rest of them, and mine would be nobody, a 
poor stray bird among them all. What’s money beside a 
father’s heart ? And a mother’s, too ? ” 

Again Sir Arthur gazed silently and thoughtfully upon the 
miller’s earnest face, and when he saw him draw the back of 
his brown hand hastily across his eyes, his own became dim. 

“I will say no more at present,” he observed at last, rising 
and taking his hat ; “ we are both of us convinced of the child’s 
identity, though I am not sure that we could prove it in a 
court of law. You will think over what I have said at your 
leisure, and weigh the pros and cons of it till w r e meet again.” 

“ Yes, Sir Arthur,” replied Meade, awed in spite of himself 
by the imposing presence of the baronet, whose head only 
just escaped the heavy beams of the old-fashioned parlor, a 
man in the prime of life, with a gracious smile and winning 
air. 

The listener in the meantime, screened by the myrtle grow- 
ing about the window, was pale as death, the knife falling 
from his nerveless hand. What should all this mean ? Was 
the school-boy taunt but the bare truth, or how ? When Sir 
Arthur came out of the porch with Mr. Meade, Philip had 
pulled himself together, and was able to come forward calmly 
at his father’s call. 

“ So this is the boy,” said Sir Arthur, laying his strong, 
slender hand with gentle firmness upon Philip’s head, push- 
ing back the tumbled hair and turning the face upward for 
the searching scrutiny he gave it. A long, long glance he 
bent upon Philip’s flushing face, kind though stern, and 
with a mingling of sorrow, compunction, and yearning which 
vaguely touched the boy’s self-steeled heart and gradually 
subdued the bold defiance of his upward gaze. 

“You are tall and strong for your age, Philip,” he said, re- 
moving his hand at last; “never misuse your strength; be 
gentle, loyal, and always think of others.” 

Then, calling his son, he went out through the garden 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


15 


gate, first pressing into Philip’s astonished hand a solid 
golden sovereign, the like of which the child had never han- 
dled before, and which he w r as at first afraid to keep lest it 
should have been given by mistake, and mounted the beauti- 
ful bay horse while Claude sprang upon the brown cob, and 
they rode away. 

Matthew and Philip stood beneath the plane-tree and 
watched them clatter over the bridge and vanish up the hill, 
each with a tumultuous stir of feeling. The miller had taken 
the child’s hand in his powerful grasp, and clutched it so 
firmly that the small fingers were all white and cramped to- 
gether and aching ; but Philip was unconscious of any physi- 
cal sensation in the w r hirl of feeling with which he gazed upon 
the splendid steeds and their gallant riders, and especially 
upon Sir Arthur, who inspired him with mingled admiration 
and repulsion. It was as if all the glory of the world opened 
upon his spiritual vision through this man. 

He looked up at his foster-father’s weather-beaten face, 
which was drawn with anxiety and gray with care, at his 
striped collarless shirt and floury jacket, and for the first 
time he took his outward measure and reckoned him a com- 
mon old man, more meanly dressed than the meanest work- 
ing-man, and contrasted his stubby chin with Sir Arthur’s 
carefully shaven, finely moulded face. Just then Meade looked 
at him and the boy’s heart melted. 

“ How would you like to ride a little horse like Master 
Medway’s, Philip ? And go and live at Marwell Court with 
Sir Arthur, and have servants to wait on ye, and fine ladies to 
cosset ye, and books to read, and plenty of money ?” the miller 
asked. 

“ Very much,” he faltered. 

“And leave poor old dad and mother and the little maid ? ” 
continued Meade, crushing the child’s hand tighter. 

“ Not for the world,” he replied, half crying, and they 
turned, both too much moved to speak, and went in. 

Why did Sir Arthur want him ? What interest could he 
possibly have in the miller’s adopted child? Philip wondered. 

Mr. Meade said nothing more on the subject to Philip that 
night, parrying his questions and bidding him wait.* But 
when the children were gone to bed, he sat long by the light 
of the single candle in the parlor, smoking his short clay pipe 
and talking to his wife. 

“ Why ever hadn’t you come, Martha ? ” he asked, testily ; 
“ Sir Arthur said himself you had as much right over the boy 
as I had myself.” 


16 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Me come ? What, and me right in the middle of the 
plum jam? And Sarah no more fit so much as to stir a 
spoon when your eye’s off her,” returned Mrs. Meade, drop- 
ping the stocking she was mending and looking reproach- 
fully across the candle’s dim pyramid of flame at her hus- 
band. “ There, Meade, I will say this for ye, of all the men- 
folk I ever came across you’re the very worst for putting any 
understanding into. Not but you’ve your good points, and 
have been a middling husband, as husbands go.” 

“ Well, there, Martha, I can’t say what sort of a wife you’ve a 
been, for I haven’t had a many wives to try you agen,” the mil- 
ler replied, “ but I wish the deuce would fly off with your jam, I 
do. Anybody med think the world depended upon your jam.” 

“The whole world may depend upon my jam,” retorted 
Mrs. Meade. “Any lady in the land might walk into my 
kitchen to-morrow morning and throw all the jam I’ve got 
across the room, if she’d a mind to ; it’s jellied that solid.” 

Matthew Meade did not stop to doubt the probability of 
high-born ladies wishing to throw jam -across Mrs. Meade’s 
kitchen, but went on to explain the importance of Sir Arthur’s 
mission, to tell of the series of clues by which he had traced 
Philip’s identity, and of his great desire to take him into his 
own care and bring him up. The merits of Mrs. Meade’s 
jam were now as nothing to her ; when the thought of losing 
Philip, which penetrated but slowly into her brain, did at 
last reach it, she put away her work and cried at the thought. 
“ The many we’ve buried, Meade,” she sobbed, “ and it did 
seem as though the Lord had sent us this one to make up.” 

“And the Lord did send him,” cried Meade, smiting his 
fist on the table so that the candle jumped and the flame 
flickered. “You mind what I said, when I brought him home 
seven years ago, Martha. A voice seemed to whisper plain 
to me, ‘ The same hand that made you childless, made this 
boy an orphan ; save him from the workhouse, and he’ll bring 

a blessing on the hearth you take him to ’ ” 

“Yes, Meade, and he did bring a blessing,” interposed 
Martha, drying her kind eyes; “there was little Jessie sent 

us in our old age ” 

“ Ay, the little maid was sent, bless her ! ” 

“ And such a boy as he was, to be sure, and no trouble with 
him. I mind that night when you came home from 
Chichester, ‘ Here’s a present for ye, mother,’ you says, and 
it was long since you’d a called me mother; for it always 
made me sorrowful, thinking of them that was gone, and so 
I felt all a tremble. And I thought to meself, ‘I do hope 


II V THE HEART OF TEE STORM. 


17 


Meade haven’t been spending his money on nonsense to 
pleasure me,’ though my best bonnet was that shabbed I 
didn’t like to go to church of a fine Sunday. ‘It’s alive, 
mother,’ you says, sort of excited. And I thought ’sure it 
must be some prize poultry, he’ve got. Then I went out to 
the cart in the dark and heard a little child crowing to itself, 
and I began to cry thinking of them we’d lost. And you 
told me to look pleasant and not frighten the little boy. 
‘For,’ you says, ‘the Lord has sent us an orphan child, 
Martha.’ And we brought him in and he cuddled up in my 
arms, and laid his little head again my arm and went off to 
sleep like a little angel.” 

“Right,” corroborated Meade, “that’s quite right, Martha, 
and you took to him as though you’d bore him in your own 
body. And we wasn’t doing well, if you mind. So many 
farmers failed, and we’d been unlucky with the dairy, and 
there was bad debts in the town and one thing and another ; 
but you said, ‘the child’s bite and sup was nothing, and I 
thought he’ll be better off in the poorest place than in the 
workhouse, though I did want to breed him up a gentleman, 
knowing, as the landlady told me, the poor dead mother was 
a honest woman and real lady. But I thought may be w 7 e 
shall see better days before ’tis time to begin the boy’s 
schooling. Right enough. So it fell out. Everything throve 
with us from the day the child came. And now I’m reckoned 
a w r arm man hereabouts.” 

“ Yes, Matthew, j r ou are warm, and thankful I am, when I 
think of them times,” replied Mrs. Meade; “and so Randal 
was the wrong name after all ? ” 

“Aye, she never said but ’twas wrong herself. She was 
hiding, and the lad had a right to his christened name.” 

“And they left him to the workhouse, his own flesh and 
blood ! ” she cried ; “ and now they think to take him from 
we after all we done for him, and he grown a fine lad, as 
well-spoke as you could wish to see, and a good boy, Mat, 
though I say it myself.” 

“All! But so fur as I can make out, they liev a right to 
en. Tlien there’s his prospex ! I reckon yOu wouldn’t stand 
in Phil’s light, Martha, just to let him bide long with us !” 

“Prospex! what’s prospex,” she cried, “alongside of a 
mother’s heart ? ” 

Mr. Meade thrust his hands deep into his pockets and 
frowned over this question ; the candle burnt down, he 
lighted another, and the two went on discussing the question 
till hard upon midnight. 


CHAPTER H. 


THE FIRST TURNING POINT. 

All the next day Mr. Meade pondered silently upon Sir 
Arthur Medway’s interview with him, until evening came 
again, and the children were gone to bed. 

. “ The boy,” he said to his wife, “ is nine year old ; he takes 

a threshing like a man, aye, and lias the grace to be thankful 
for’t. He knows aready more book-learning than ever I 
known all my life. He’ll tell you the Latin for a cow or a 
cat smother than you’ll print off your pats of butter, Martha. 
’Tis but right he should know how he was come by and what 
he’ve got to look to. Let en choose for hisself.” 

Mrs. Meade demurred at throwing such a responsibility on 
a child of nine years. 

“It’s like this,” Meade replied; “there’s no lawyer living, 
not the Lord Chancellor hisself, can make me believe I haven’t 
a right to a boy I’ve took and bred up from his cradle and 
been a father to. But Sir Arthur, he’ve got a right over the 
child, too, and ’tis plain as plums we can’t both hev him, and 
only the Lord himself can judge between us. I’ve tried open- 
ing the Bible hap-hazard, but can’t light upon what’ll serve the 
turn. Only I come to ‘ Out of the mouths of babes and suck- 
lings ’ twice, and it was borne in upon me that Philip must 
settle for himself.” 

The argument was unanswerable, and in much grief and 
trepidation, Mrs. Meade accepted the office of acquainting 
Philip with the choice that lay before him. 

“Lither tongues,” Mr. Meade continued, “was never 
meant for men folk, Martha. I never was good at ’putting 
words to what’s going on inside of me. Think I can, as well 
as any man. But darned if I can tell what I’m thinking of. 
You may mind the time it took me to come to the point when 
courting.” 

“To be sure, Meade,” she replied, with feeling, “I did 
think you was never going to say ‘ mum,’ and folk knew I 
was ready to say ‘ budget,’ and there was a laugh against me 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


19 


in all the country-side. ‘If you can’t bring him on, Patty, 
you’d better throw him off,’ Cousin Jane lieve said many a 
time ; ‘ if he had any nouse, he’d a known it was time to speak 
up long ago.’ Whatever we should ha’ done if it hadn’t been 
for grandmother’s great gander, I don’t know ; kept wiverin’ 
on till now, I reckon.” 

“ Eight,” replied Meade, gravely; “you’re right, Martha, 

. but even the girt gander would ha’ ben nothing without your 
tongue. I beat the gander off of ye, and you cried and clung 
on to me, and there I stood like a girt zote and couldn’t tell 
for the life of me what to say next. It did seem that simple 
to blurt out, ‘ Marry me, Martha,’ all of a sudden right in the 
middle of the common with the wild gander and all the 
geese staring and hissing at us. I’d a given ye a kiss but I 
had to keep my eye on that gander all the time. Then you 
said, ‘ Please don’t leave me, Mr. Meade ; I’m that fright- 
ened ! ’ And that put it into my head to say, ‘ I’ll never leave 
ye, my dear, if you’ll promise to go to church with me, afore 
two months are gone.’ And so ’t was done, but it drove the 
sweat out of me, and you was all of a tremble in a pink Sun- 
day gown, and the church bells ringen. And the old gander 
kept on hissing and running, so I was forced to keep my arm 
round ye all the way across common. I never hear a goose 
hiss but I think on ’t,” he added, pensively. 

“ ’T wasn’t the first lead I gave ye, either,” laughed Mrs. 
Meade, brightening at these tender recollections ; “ but 
there, courten is like a cool hand at pastry ; its born with 
some, and there are those can’t do it to save their lives. 
‘Mat Meade’s that nog-headed,’ Cousin Jane used to say, ‘ I’d 
rather die an old maid than put up with such a duncli chap.’ 
But I thought to myself, ‘ Matt Meade has a good headpiece 
enough, if he is wanting in tongue. I’ve enough for both. 
And courten is only wanted ove a lifetime.’ ” 

“I don’t doubt things are ordered right,” Mr. Meade com- 
mented ; “ but it seems a pity the courten isn’t done by the 
women. I’d sooner unload ten wagons of flour than feel 
how I felt for months and months before your grandmother’s 
great gander ran after ye. Any woman would ha’ done it that 
easy, you’d scarcely know you’d ben through anything ; then- 
tongues twist and turn about like a well-broke, tender- 
mouthed filly.” 

“ Ah, well, ’t was soon done and over, after all,” observed 
Mrs. Meade, regretfully ; “ fullish times they were, I’m sure.” 

“It’s what all must come to,” moralized Mr. Meade; 
“bound to be fullish once in a lifetime is all mankind, You 


20 


JiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


was a pretty maid, Martha ; not that I was one to be took by 
a pretty face,” he added, severely, knowing that female vanity 
dies hard. “No, my dear, I somehow seemed set on ye, I 
didn’t know why. Whether ’twas the dairy, or the cooking, 
or the goodness of heart, drew me on, I can’t rightly say. 
But I was that dull and drug the days I didn’t get a sight of 
ye. Bless me, how fullish we went on ! ” he exclaimed, sud- 
denly checking this flood of tender reminiscence ; for he was 
a man of sober thought and staid demeanor, and knew what 
was due to conjugal propriety and their advancing years. 
“ What was I a-saying ? Words is what I never could handle 
easy. I can heft anything you like to name with any man of 
forty ; but when it comes to words, I’m bound to make a 
mess on ’t. Words come natural to the womenfolk. So you 
tell the boy, Martha.” 

Thus it came to pass that Mrs. Meade ascended the steep 
creaking stair and went into the dim little attic in the ghostly 
twilight, her footsteps on the uncarpeted boards rousing the 
sleeping boy. 

“Mother,” he cried, starting up, “I didn’t take the plums, 
indeed I didn’t.” 

“Dear heart alive,” said Mrs. Meade, “who’s thinking of 
plums ? I know who had them, my dear, and it wasn’t you. 
You’re never stinted in anything that’s good for children, so 
you wouldn’t take plums, and you’ve never told me a lie yet, 
Philip.” 

Philip lay back on the pillow and wondered if the fowls had 
got into the garden when he left the gate open. 

“ Boys,” said Mrs. Meade, giving him a kiss and carefully 
tucking in the bed-clothes he had dashed aside, “are made 
that lither and sprack they can’t bide quiet long together, 
they’re bound to be in some mischief, tearing and siling 
clothes, upsetting and breaking things, and stabbling all over 
the house. I cried terrible when mine were took, but I do 
think to meself at times there was mercy in it. For however I 
could keep the house decent with four stabbling about, the 
Lord only knows.” 

“ I did mean to shut the gate,” said Philip, “ but I forgot.” 

“ Never mind the gate, my dear, but mind to shut him next 
time,” she continued, smoothing the sheet under his chin. 
“ For a boy you’ve been a good boy, and me and your father 
has never repented taking you — ” here Mrs. Meade’s voice 
failed her and she took out her handkerchief to Philip’s dis- 
may. 

“ Taking me ? ” he asked, after a pause j “ where from ? ” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


21 


“From the workhouse,” she replied. “Nobody knew so 
much as your surname when your poor mother died and left 
ye, and there was nothing for it but the workhouse, if Matthew 
hadn’t come along and thought of them we’d lost and had it 
borne in upon him he was to take and breed you up in their 
place.” 

Philip had seen the workhouse boys in their thin and poor 
uniform at some holiday gathering in which they were 
included, he had marked their pinched and often vicious 
faces, had heard them use foul words, once he had been taken 
to see some one at the workhouse, once a man in Cleeve had 
been tried for ill-treating a young workhouse apprentice and 
he had stolen into the court to hear the case. He wound his 
stout little arm into that of the kind soul who had been a 
mother to him, and she kissed him and stroked the thick 
hair off his forehead. Then she told him how Matthew had 
brought him home one night, that he was of gentle blood and 
of an origin known to Sir Arthur, who wished to educate him 
with his own sons. 

All this, in spite of her husband’s tribute to her eloquence 
and Philip’s eager interest and frequent questioning she 
effected not without difficult and much digression and repeti- 
tion. 

“ But mother, what is my name ? ” he asked for at least the 
ninth time, for he was tired out with eight evasive answers to 
this important question. 

“ My dear,” she replied, on being thus brought to bay, “ it’s 
little chance you have of keeping the Fifth Commandment 
with your poor mother in her grave this seven years. It’s 
only her dying wishes you can obey, which is, you was to be 
called Philip Randal and ask no questions.” 

Philip sighed ; he had long since discovered that the whole 
duty of youth consisted in not asking questions, and the whole 
interest and joy of youth in doing so. He gave Mrs. Meade’s 
ample form a tight squeeze and asked if he was to be sent to 
Mar well Court to live. 

“Not if you don’t want to go, my dear,” she replied, 
tenderly stroking his hair on which the bright silver of the 
moon now shimmered. “Me and your father wants to keep 
you bad enough, but we can’t bring ourselves to stand in 
your light, Phil. Sir Arthur would make a gentleman and a 
made man of ye.” 

Mrs. Meade went on to speak of college education and of 
the expenses, reaching far into manhood, of launching a youth 
in any profession. “Then, my dear,” she continued, “your 


22 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


father and me are plain people, though comfortable, and we 
know manners as well as most ; and I will say that for Meade, 
never a bad word comes out of his mouth, and always takes 
his hat off to his betters ; and aggravating as Cousin Jane may 
be, while under his roof he’s never nothen but civil to her. 
The worst he ever said was one Christmas time when Cousin 
Jane was onluckier than ever I knew, and said things made 
me wish the vittles might choke her. ‘I could wish, ma’am,’ 
says Meade, as smooth as cream, ‘ your tongue had a been 
made no longer than y'our temper. You’d ha’ been a happier 
woman.’ She looked pretty straight at him, but it done her 
good. Your father’s a good man, my dear. You never see 
him sit down to meals without washing his hands. But he 
and me haven’t got the manners of Sir Arthur and her lady- 
ship. They’re high fol with manners to match. There’s 
manners and manners, same as there’s plain sewing and fine 
needlework, and there’s nothen, no, not whooping-cough or 
scarlatina, catchinger than manners. So you must think 
hard about it, and perhaps you might put it in your prayers, 
my dear, to have a right judgment.” 

With these words and a final kiss and tucking-up, Mrs. 
Meade stole out of the moonlit attic, leaving Philip in a 
fever of confused and agitating thoughts and bewildering 
feelings. 

He thought he should never go to sleep ; he heard the tall 
clock on the stairs strike ten just as his mother left the 
room, but before her footsteps had ceased to echo along the 
boarded passages, with his arms still flung wide, the sudden 
sweet sleep of childhood descended upon his tired eyes and 
remained there till morning. 

A few days later Philip, in his Sunday suit and clean 
collar, with hair freshly cut and an odor of soapsuds per- 
vading him, started for Marwell Court in a high dog-cart, 
driven by a young groom, who was inclined to smile at the 
tender farewell which took place at the door. Philip looked 
back as long as he could see them with a sad, half-reproach- 
ful feeling ; he seemed to be deserting. But this lowness of 
spirits was completely forgotten when he reached Marwell 
Court, which he had seen many a time from a distance but 
only once entered. On that occasion he was staying with 
Cousin Jane, the wife of a farmer in the neighborhood, and 
accompanied her on a visit to the house-keeper, who patted 
him on the head, which he did not like, and gave him plum- 
cake and currant wine, which he did. 

That he might ever be master of that fine building did not 


nsr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


23 


enter among the many thoughts jostling in his small brain 
as he swept up the avenue, past one wing and reined in be- 
fore a wide porticoed entrance. Like a dreamer, he got 
down from the dog-cart and went up the steps and through 
doors magically flying open of themselves to admit him. 
Here were tall splendidly dressed gentlemen in colored vel- 
vets, silk, and gold, their heads more floury than those of the 
men at the mill at home ; kind and polite in spite of their 
bewildering splendor. No longer Phil Randal, the miller’s 
boy, but a fairy prince penetrating to the heart of some dark 
enchantment, he passed through a spacious and beautiful 
hall, with a shining marble floor, with pictures on the walls 
and white figures poised on pedestals like wingless angels 
ready for flight, with rich hangings half-shrouding doors and 
windows, and was almost startled when the handsome lad 
who had played with him in the garden at home came 
bounding down the wide soundless staircase to receive him. 

“ Hullo, Randal, here you are at last,” cried Claude, 
bringing the fairy prince from regions of dim enchantment 
to the solid earth with a bounce. “ How are you ? Come to 
my mother’s room.” 

Philip answered him in a dazed way and followed him up- 
stairs and along thick-carpeted corridors to a room full of 
strange flower-scents and pale blue satin. 

“Lady Gertrude’s room,” Claude said before he opened 
the door, in a low tone that implied something like awe. 

“ This is Philip Randal, mother,” he said, presenting him 
to the beautiful, plainly-dressed lady reclining by the open 
window. 

“ So you are Philip,” she said, looking thoughtfully at him. 

“ Yes, if you please, ma’am,” lie replied, respectfully; “and 
I have a mother, too,” he added, standing in front of her and 
resting his elbow on the arm of a sofa ; “ she sent her duty to 
you.” 

“ So you are not afraid of us ? ” she asked, smiling as Philip 
supposed that angels smile, and caressing his reverent, up- 
turned face with her dainty hand, white as a lily and soft as 
a rose-leaf. 

“ No, ma’am. And I like your house, though it’s the big- 
gest I ever was in.” 

“ Do you like small houses best, Philip ? ” 

“ Weil, you see, ma’am, I’ve been used to small houses all 
my life,” he explained, “and just at first a big one feels 
strange. Besides, I didn’t know that people lived in such 
fine places.” 


24 


IF THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“I hope you will be happy in our house,” she said, gra- 
ciously; “ Claude will show you everything. Run away now, 
boys, and don’t get into more mischief than you can help.” 

Philip kissed the hand that was under his chin with a 
natural unconscious grace that gave pleasure, and the boys 
left the room, Claude with an air of relief. 

“By Jove, Philip,” he said when they were outside the 
door, “ you’ve made a conquest of her ladyship. She can’t 
bear boys.” And, taking him to the library to Sir Arthur, he 
forthwith, to Philip’s surprise, described the interview with 
Lady Gertrude, at the recital of which Sir Arthur smiled and 
pinched Philip’s ear. “A born courtier,” he said, enigmati- 
cally. Then sending Claude away, he spoke to Philip of his 
origin and his intentions concerning him, as Mrs. Meade had 
already done. 

“Your foster-father,” he said, in conclusion, “wishes you 
to do exactly what you like best. He is quite ready to give 
up all claims upon you, if you like to live with us and share 
my son’s education and other advantages. There is a pony 
for you already. You will go to school with Hugh till you 
are both ready for Eton. Run away with Claude now.” 

Dismissing him with a wave of the hand, Sir Arthur dis- 
missed the subject as well, considering the event of Philip’s 
preferring Stillbrooke to Marwell as too improbable to be 
taken into account. 

The few days spent at Marwell seemed months to Philip, 
everything being so new and strange. Claude and Hugh 
were capital companions, for a boy without brothers the 
younger children and the little girls, too, were companionable. 
There was so much to enjoy, such variety of games and pas- 
times, so many books, so many objects of interest, such 
space for play. Claude even had a gun, besides fishing-rods, 
cricket-bats, carpenters’ tools, and a boat. 

Their rides in the park were delightful ; the pretty shy- 
eyed deer starting away from them, the pale gray mass of 
masonry everywhere showing itself in some new and impos- 
ing light, the large gardens, the home farm, the harriers, all 
either pleased him or impressed his fancy. He liked to go 
with the other children after dinner into the long drawing- 
room, opening into a long vista of drawing-rooms, and glori- 
fied when he first saw it, by a blaze of sunset falling through 
the tall western windows ; he wondered at the ladies’ gleam- 
ing arms and shoulders, their jewels and silken clothes, and 
liked their gentle manners and refined accent. 

“Well, Philip,” said Lady Gertrude, when he stole up to a 


iiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


25 

position behind her sofa just after dinner, “ do you still think 
this a beautiful house ? And what do you think the most 
beautiful thing in it? ” 

“You, ma’am,” he replied, without hesitation, to the great 
amusement of some ladies staying in the house, who were 
near. 

It was a new wonder after this glimpse of enchantment, to 
see the familiar hedge-rows and fields floating past him in 
the summer sunset when he was driven home again. 

He arrived just as dusk was falling ; the lamps shone 
sparse and dim in the gray streets and were reflected from 
the bridge in the still mill-stream and there, under the plane- 
tree, sat Mrs. Meade in her homely, familiar dress, with Jessie 
half-asleep on her knee, and there, issuing from the green 
shadows, was Matthew himself. 

How glad they were to see him again, how Jessie clung to 
him, and how pleasant and cosey the homelike parlor seemed 
with the candle lighted, the supper spread, and Sarah coming 
in with smiles of welcome. 

“ Take your time, Phil, take your time,” his father said 
after supper, when questioning him about his visit ; “mind, 
it’s for life, so don’t decide in a hurry. Philip looked in his 
face and then in his mother’s, and said nothing, but in his 
heart he decided once for all, “I’ll never leave them,” he 
thought. 


CHAPTER HI. 

philip’s second turning. 

So the child’s will prevailed. Philip knew nothing of the 
controversy between the Medways and the Meades as to 
which house he should belong. Sir Arthur had weakly con- 
sented to refer the question to the boy, without dream- 
ing that a lad of that age would hesitate for a moment in 
preferring such a home as he had to offer to the gray solitude 
of Stillbrooke Mill. 

“ Very good, sir,” was Meade’s last words. “If you takes 
the bwoy, I goes to law.” 

This clinched the matter ; the Medways dreaded the pub- 
licity of a legal process beyond everything. As Matthew had 
represented, Philip was practically at Sir Arthur’s gates, he 
could watch him and make sure of his welfare. His adoptive 
father pledged himself to give him the best education to be 
had in Cleeve and start him afterward in a profession ; when 
he failed in those conditions, Sir Arthur could step in. So 
the visit to Marwell Court soon faded to a dim golden mem- 
ory in Philip’s mind ; he forgot Claude and Hugh’s descrip- 
tion of their schools and sports, and the glowing picture of 
the Eton life now to be Claude’s, and the lad’s congenial com- 
panionship. Everything connected with them slept out of 
sight in his mind while the quiet years slipped by like a 
peaceful dream, and Philip grew a tall, lanky lad, a sore puz- 
zle to the miller now that the time was come for choosing a 
profession. 

As usual the wishes of youth did not chime with the coun- 
sels of riper age. The navy alone had charms for Philip ; 
the church for his parents. A vision of the boy’s merry face 
rising above a black gown and white bands, in the oaken 
pulpit of Cleeve Church, haunted Mrs. Meade’s mind with 
beatific persistence, while Mr. Meade felt it w T ould be a grand 
thing to hear Philip read the burial service over him and 
perhaps preach his funeral sermon^ 

Philip’s only alternative proposition was the army. The 
question was seriously debated at a Christmas gathering at 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


27 


Stillbrooke Mill by a small knot of elders grouped, church- 
warden in hand, round the fire in the common parlor while 
the young people played games in the best parlor. 

“ You may depend upon it, Meade,” observed Cousin Jane, 
an uninvited presence in the smoking parliament, “you’ll 
hev to pay for bringing the boy up above plain folk.” 

“ I’ve paid already, ma’am, for this year,” replied Meade, 

I “ and got schoolmaster’s receipt upon the file.” 

, Cousin Jane’s husband’s mouth went upwards at this ob- 
servation. 

“You’ve aright to mock at your wife’s relations at your 
own fireside, Mr. Meade,” she returned mournfully, “but 
mocking won’t undo the wrong you done my poor sister’s 
child for the sake of a foundling and a castaway. But it’s none 
of my business. You may make the boy prime minister to- 
morrow for all I should meddle. And let Jessie go barefoot. 
Not that she’ll ever come to good, spoiled and muddled up as 
! she is.” 

“ Make a land agent of him, Meade,” interposed Mr. Plum- 
mer, Cousin Jane’s husband, with some haste. “ Sir Arthur’s 
agent’s fine gentleman enough for anybody, so’s his wife.” 

“ A lawyer,” observed Mr. Cheeseman, the corn-dealer and 
town councillor, “is a gentleman by act of parliament. I’ll 
warrant law’s a fine business. It takes brains and it makes 
money.” 

“Lawyers,” added Mr. Symes, the clockmaker, “have a 
finger in everybody’s pie. Mr. Westley has half the town 
under his thumb.” 

“You may say what you like,” added Mr. Plummer, “what- 
ever business a lawyer’s in, the money sticks to en. 
Whether it’s drawing of a lease, or raising of a morgige ; 
the sovereigns cleave to his fingers. Give a lawyer money to 
lay out and you’re a lucky man if you lives to see the half of 
it agen. Whoever fails, a lawyer’s never broke. There’s 
money in law, Meade.” 

“Aye, but think of the rascality, Plummer,” sighed Mr. 
Meade. 

“ To be sure,” was the chorussed reply, “ whoever heard of 
a honest lawyer ? ” 

“ Millers haven’t always been reckoned straight men,” ob- 
served a hitherto silent smoker, Mr. Reade, grocer and church- 
warden. “ What’s that about the miller’s thumb, Meade, eh? ” 

“Mr. Reade must hev his joke,” commented Martha, com- 
ing forward to see if people’s glasses were properly filled, 
amid a chorus of chuckles over the jest. 


28 


IN TUN TIN ART OF THE STORM. 


“ I’ve heard say ’t is a fine thing to be a barrister,” Mr. 
Meade continued, “ but meself, I can’t see it. Before ever 
they earn so much as a penny piece they’ve got to eat dinners 
for a year or two in a sort of church. And when they get a 
job ’t is mostly a dirty one so far as I can make out. A bar- 
rister that gets a scoundrel off hanging is a made man, they 
tell me, and run after by every villain in the land. Philip can 
eat dinners at home, and the fewer scoundrels get let off the 
better. Doctoring I’ve laid awake over many a night. But 
I shouldn’t like the boy to live off other folk’s ills. As for a 
clergyman, he won’t so much as look at it.” 

“ It does seem hard work to be a honest man and a gentle- 
man to be sure,” commented Mrs. Meade. “Many a time 
I’ve said to Meade, ‘let the child be plain and honest.’ ” 

“ You may warrant,” added her husband, “ gentle or simple, 
’tis a heavy thing to be honest and rich, whatever trade you 
take.” 

A chorus of denials followed, for nearly all present were 
men of substance and each convinced of his own integrity, 
though doubtful of that of others. 

The end of this and many such conferences was that Philip 
found himself one fine morning perched upon a high stool in 
Mr. Westley’s office, an articled clerk. He came home at night, 
pale and silent ; at the end of a month, a doctor had to be 
consulted. The doctor recommended air and exercise ; which 
being taken speedily restored the patient. Six weeks more in 
the office reduced Philip to the same low level. His release 
came ; Mr. Meade’s purse was lightened, and there was Philip 
free, and a standing problem once more. 

A period of idling followed, then Philip, having neatly set 
his dog’s broken leg in splints, suddenly took it into his head 
to be a doctor, remembering that a doctor can enter either 
army or navy. Therefore one memorable night in the mem- 
orable year of the Crimean war, found Philp making pills in 
Dr. Maule’s surgery, with a listless air and dispirited face. 

He had been apprenticed for more than a year and a half, 
and felt himself little wiser than he had been at the begin- 
ning. As for old Maule, as he called him, he soon found out 
that all his skill was built upon experience, and that he was 
as incapable as he was unwilling to teach him. 

Many a headache did the poor lad get over Dr. Maule’s 
medical books, his bones, and his instruments ; the names of 
different bones and muscles refused to remain in his head, 
the books were a hopeless maze without a clue, he began to 
think that he had no aptitude for the profession, and to crown 


IJST THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


29 


all lie had to be interrupted so perpetually in receiving patients, 
taking their messages and mixing their medicines that no 
sooner had he succeeded in making himself acquainted with 
the carotid artery or the thyroid cartilage than a report upon 
old Mr. Robinson’s gout drove both cartilage and artery out 
of his mind. 

“ Teach ! ” the old doctor would say with a hearty oath, 
“ how the devil am I to find time to cram your thick head ? 
Nobody ever taught me ; I picked up what I could in old 
Pestle’s surgery, with the assistant and the other apprentice 
swearing at me and boxing my ears from morning till night, 
but damn me I took care to pull through the examinations. I 
wasn’t cockered like you. Learn, you lazy young dog, learn ! ” 

He was a kind old fellow, with a sort of bluff cordiality, and 
did not sw r ear with his patients more than enough to give his 
discourse a pungent emphasis ; he took care not to be the 
w r orse but rather the better for his powerful potations when 
on duty, he was shrewd too and knew men, thus he was 
popular, and when his patients died people said it was the 
will of God, and when they recovered (as they sometimes did) 
the skill of Dr. Maule. 

Suddenly, while Philip was musing over his pills, the sur- 
gery door opened violently and in stormed the old doctor, 
pouring out a broadside of oaths. Philip knew that he had 
been dining out and had not expected him to return for an- 
other hour or two. Having consigned Philip piecemeal to 
perdition in company with his own soul, he suddenly thrust 
a bottle into his face and asked him what he meant by that. 

“Mean, sir?” returned Philip, “I suppose I meant it for 
cough mixture.” 

Alas ! it was a poisonous compound intended for outward 
use and clearly marked for inward in Philip’s handwriting. 

“You murderous young dog ! ” shouted the doctor. 

“I’m not a dog,” retorted Philip. u I have not made a 
beast of myself,” he added with sarcasm. 

“What do you mean?” cried the doctor with a thick utter- 
ance. 

“I mean,” cried Philip, suddenly and passionately, “that 
I came here to study medicine, and not to be bullied and 
sworn at and made to do all your work.” 

“Take that,” roared the doctor, with embellishments, box- 
ing his ears, whereupon Philip seized him by the collar and 
laid him flat on the floor, in which position Dr. Maule’s 
grown-up son entering, discovered them. 

“ This is nice manly behavior, Randal,” said young Maule, 


30 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


picking up Iris irate parent and placing him in a chair ; and 
after much blustering on the old man’s part, and vain attempts 
at peace-making on the son’s, Philip found himself in the 
street, with the information that his indentures would have 
to be cancelled and he need not return. 

So ended Philip’s second professional career. “ What’s the 
good of a fellow like me ? ” he thought, marching defiantly 
down the street and whistling savagely. 

He finished the evening with some fellows of his own age, | 
not a very steady set, and tried with loud merriment, jovial 
songs, and deep potations, to bury his chagrin. 

It was late when he bent his wavering steps homeward, 
wondering why in the world the houses kept knocking up 
against him, and who was that villain continually pushing him 
off the pavement. To solve these problems, he leant against 
a lamp-post, mournfully wailing : 

“Why did my master sell me 
Upon my wedding day ? ” 

with his hat tipped over one eye. Just at this moment who 
should come around the corner but his bete noire , the vicar, 
returning from Mrs. Carlyon’s dinner party. 

“ Come, Randal,” said Mr. Bryan, roughly. “ What are you 
doing here ? You are drunk. Get home directly.” 

“ Get home ’self,” retorted Philip, thickly ; “ ’sgraceful time 
of night for parson.” 

Waxy Bryan, as the street-boys called their hot-tempered 
Irish pastor, instead of leaving the luckless boy to grow 
sober before going home, angrily pushed him away from the 
lamp-post. Philip, to save himself, caught at him, the streets 
were slippery with rain, and after a brief struggle the two 
fell full length in each other’s arms on the pavement, just as 
a policeman sauntered around the corner. 

Mr. Bryan was soon on his feet and promptly gave Philip 
into custody for knocking him down, and the unhappy boy 
finished the night at the police station. 

What a waking was his next morning ! Racking headache, 
sickness, bodily depression, and heavy shame. 

The brawl had not been without witnesses, and when Mr. ; 
Bryan woke in the morning with a cool head and remembered 
that he had in sober truth committed the assault, vindictive 
as be was, he considered it better not to prosecute Philip. 
He therefore repaired to the station early and withdrew his 
charge. 

Philip, haggard and dishevelled, with the disreputable air 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


31 


that always clings to people who have passed the night in their 
clothes, took refuge in a small public-house, feeling that he 
could not go home yet, and sat down to write home. His 
dizzy throbbing head weighed upon his hands as he sat with 
elbows on the table and tried to find words fit for his narra- 
tive. An hour went by and he had not got beyond “dear 
father he heard loungers at the bar discussing “this here 
Rooshian job the smart, quick music of fife and drum called 
all to doors, and windows, and street corners. Even Philip 
raised his heavy head and looked up to see a recruiting-party 
with streaming ribbons step briskly past to the tune of “ Come 
cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer ! ” 

The whole thing was inspiriting to one so downcast as 
Philip, and offered a sudden solution of his life’s problem ; war 
was coming, men were wanted, volunteers were offering, pro- 
motion would be quick. In a very short time, Philip was the 
richer by a silver shilling in his pocket and the smarter for a 
bunch of ribbons in his hat. 

In the meantime there had been sorrow at the mill, and Mr. 
Meade had hurried early in the morning to Dr. Maule’s to see 
if he could throw any light upon the boy’s disappearance. 

Dr. Maule was sober and melancholy at this hour of the day. 
Though a hard drinker he was seldom as overcome as on the 
preceding night ; he greatly regretted the affair with Philip in 
the surgery, which he related to Mr. Meade with impartial ac- 
curacy. 

“ He won’t do for physic, Meade,” he said ; “ he’s lazy and 
won’t bear the curb. Put him to hard out-door work.” 

But the doctor could not tell where the boy was, and Mr. 
Meade returned disconsolately homeward, on his way meet- 
ing Mr. Bryan, whose account of the preceding night’s ad- 
venture was acrid and disquieting. 

“ I always said that boy would come to no good,” the vicar 
added, consolingly, “ he is one of the wildest young fellows in 
the parish. You give him too much liberty, Mr. Meade.” 

“ As well hang a dog at once as give him a bad name,” cried 
the miller, indignantly, “ you was always hard on my poor boy, 
sir. I’d sooner be a poor black heathen than your sort of 
Christian.” 

Then he met Mr. Ingleby, the curate, a good-hearted young 
fellow, who had often done the lad a kind turn, and to whom 
Philip had just gone with his confession, desiring him to com- 
municate all to his father. 

It was a heavy blow to Matthew and Martha, whose first 
thought was to buy Philip out at once ; but Matthew Meade 


32 


IS THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


was not a man to do anything in a hurry. He considered the 
subject well first, and finally Mr. Ingleby’s advice, coupled 
with Philip’s own earnest supplications and urgent reasonings, 
together with Dr. Maule’s report upon the lad’s capacities, in- 
duced Mr. Meade to yield a reluctant consent to his prodigal’s 
remaining in the ranks. Mr. Ingleby had taken an interest 
in the boy for years, and his verdict was that he suffered from 
being educated above his surroundings, and would infinitely 
profit from the discipline in the ranks. He also undertook to 
interest his brother, a captain in the same regiment, in the 
new recruit. 

So it came to pass shortly after that Philip, looking, as little 
Jessie thought, very smart and handsome in his infantry uni- 
form, and feeling very gay and hopeful, marched with his re- 
giment on board a troop-ship bound for the East, amid the 
thunder of a vast crowd’s cheers, the weeping of women and 
children, and a thousand piteous little farewell scenes. 

Matthew Meade, with Martha and Jessie, now a pretty play- 
ful girl of twelve, with deep blue eyes and hair of woven sun- 
beams, stood amid the crowd to watch the embarkation and 
wave Philip a last farewell, with deeply moved hearts. 

It was indeed a moving scene, calling a complexity of the 
deepest feelings into play, one which few Englishmen could 
witness without strong thrills of patriotic pride and fear and 
hope, and few human beings without the stirring of tenderest 
sympathies. The great ships lay like giants at rest on the blue 
waters, the beautiful winged wooden warships looking like 
living creatures, and the great troop-ships ; the shore was lined 
and covered at every coign of vantage with human beings, 
all moved by one vast common interest, all more or less sor- 
rowful ; for as regiment after regiment marched by with firm, 
even step the spectators could not but remember the certainty 
that many of those fine men would return again no more. On 
that late winter day the justice or injustice of the impending 
but as yet undeclared war with Russia was forgotten ; for as 
cheer after cheer thundered along the shore and echoed back 
from wall, bastion, and church tower, and was taken up and 
repeated from ship to ship and from rank to rank of that mov- 
ing mass of armed men and broken by the gay defiance of 
the martial music, those present could only remember that 
they were Englishmen, animated by one hope, stimulated to 
one common duty, citizens of a great nation with centuries of 
honor and achievement behind her and the dim splendor of 
a great future before her, and that the honor of England 
would perhaps soon be at stake, 


IZV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


SB 


And so the war passion took them ; for the English are, as 
every truly great nation must be, a martial people ; they do 
not rush into war with a light heart, or, knowingly, for an 
unjust cause ; the waste, the agony, the pity of it appals them ; 
for they are too brave not to be humane ; but once convinced 
that it is their duty to fight, they fight heroically, silently, 
patiently, with an unquestioning discipline unknown to other 
nations. 

And after all is not that magnificent terror, war, the school 
of heroism and self-sacrifice, the purge of covetousness, the 
cementer of friendship and patriotism, the curb of cruelty and 
nurse of pity, and does it not foster kindness and mutual 
admiration between nations even as the sea unites the land it 
seems to divide ? 

At least, so thought Philip Randal. As for little Jessie 
Meade, she cried to her heart’s content, not so much because 
Philip was going away, as because the vast enthusiasm of the 
crowd, and the stir and color of the scene upset her nerves 
and woke dim and inexplicable feelings of grandeur and glory 
within her. 

“ Oh, mother,” she cried, “ look ! The big soldier and 
the white kitten ! ” And there, distinct against the soldier’s 
red tunic and undisturbed by the music and martial tumult, 
a tiny white kitten rode gravely to the war on her master’s 
shoulder. In front of the kitten marched a little boy-soldier, 
crying bitterly at leaving his mother, but beating his drum 
manfully all the time. 

“If Philip were only a horse-soldier like Mr. Medway !” 
said Jessie, her quick eye singling Claude out from some pict- 
uresque hussars. This fine young officer was one of the im- 
mortal Six Hundred who were destined to cover themselves 
so soon with glory. 

“I wish I’d bought the lad a commission!” Mr. Meade 
said, turning away to go homeward. 

“If only the dear child comes back safe and sound ! That's 
all I care about ! ” sighed Mrs. Meade. 

But Jessie’s imagination was dominated by the picturesque 
brilliance of the hussars. 

3 


PART I. 


“Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die.” 


CHAPTER I. 

PEACE. 

The war cloud had burst in tempest and raged itself to 
stillness; England breathed freely once more. For two 
weary years voices of humiliation and exultation, of indigna- 
tion and mourning, of sorrow and pride filled the land. 
There were vacant places at many a pleasant hearth, desolate 
homes, fatherless children, age bereaved and strong youth 
hopelessly crippled, but there was peace at last. The sword 
of England, the army, had been tested and found wanting ; 
the material was excellent, but the organization vile, and what 
avails a sword of finest temper without a skilled hand to wield 
it ? Yet this splendid sword reaped laurels. 

When the daffodils of 1856 shot up in graceful battalions 
by warbling streams in low, lying meadows, welcome rumors 
of peace floated through the land and mingled with the breath 
of opening violet and the sweet promise of the young prim- 
roses ; gradually they grew to certainty, and the music of joy- 
bells pealing from countless steeples and the roar of cannon 
* proclaiming the peace blended with the innumerable wild 
bird-songs of the springing year. 

The first swallows came about Stillbrooke Mill bearing this 
gentle message on their wings. Mrs. Meade shed tears of 
joy on hearing the news one bright morning, then instantly 
began to make grand household preparations for Philip’s re- 
ception. Mr. Meade went out into the garden, where every- 
thing seemed to be putting forth its strength and beauty to 
welcome the returning exile. He went to stick a row of 
young peas with a slow smile deepening the numerous wrin- 
kles about his mouth, while Jessie flitted about the sunny gar- 
den, tangling the sunbeams in her flowing hair, gathering 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


35 


spring flowers and singing patriotic songs in her bird-like 
voice. 

“ Phil 11 never know the little maid, she’s shot up that tall 
and slim,” he thought. 

Looking back on those two years of wearing anxiety, the 
Meades w r ondered how they had ever lived through them, 
much less gone about their daily occupations as usual. 

News did not travel so rapidly then as now ; war corre- 
spondents then only began to be ; papers were fewer, dearer, 
and less accurate and well-informed than now, rumors from 
private sources circulated vaguely and inaccurately. It was 
terrible to the Meades to hear of Alma and then wait in long 
suspense ignorant of Philip’s fate, the more so as Mr. Ingle- 
by’s brother fell in that action, and his name was duly re- 
ported with so many nameless rank and file of his and of 
Philip’s regiment among the killed. Balaclava and Inkerman 
brought the same sickening doubt, and the Meades wrote 
letters which seemed ghastly in the light of that uncertainty 
to one who might be lying dead on those battle-fields. 

The wound which Philip received at Inkerman, and his sub- 
sequent hospital troubles left them longer in doubt ; but 
once satisfied that he was recovering, the winter hardships 
did not cause them so much anxiety, especially as the ac- 
counts of those hardships were to a certain extent discredited 
in England, and Philip made light of them in his letters, so 
that by the time the summer came his parents were suffi- 
ciently case-hardened to think of other things than the war, 
and were disposed rather to under-rate the perils and priva- 
tions of the long siege of Sebastopol. 

When the oaks were exchanging their tints of dull crimson, 
russet, and warm gold for the pure, fresh, pale green of full 
leafage at the meeting of May and June, the wdiole people re- 
joiced in the peace, the country echoed with clashing bells 
and booming guns ; the larger towns blazed at night with 
such illuminations as the limited resources of those bygone, 
days permitted, and even the sober burgesses of Cleeve filled 
their windows with candles, lit bonfires and otherwise reck- 
lessly comported themselves. 

“ Matt Meade’s doing it handsome,” said a portly citizen at 
shut of eve, on the feast day, as he passed the mill with a com- 
panion. “ And he came down smartly for the town decora- 
tions. He’s reckoned a warm man, is Matt, though they do 
say he’s dipped pretty heavy in mines and other speculations.” 

“Not he. You may warrant Matt Meade kno^vs what he’s 
about,” returned Mr. Cheeseman, now an alderman. “You’ll 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


36 

have to get up early to catch him asleep. He’s warmer than 
anybody knows. Scrapes and hoards for young scapegrace. 
’Tis rough on the girl, but she’ll be a catch by and by after 
all, trust me if she isn’t.” 

Holiday groups crossed and recrossed the bridge, glancing 
at the illuminated mill as they went ; loungers leant on the 
parapet, where the lamp stanchions were twined with laurel, 
to criticise Miller Meade’s patriotic lamps and candles, and 
the Chinese lanterns swinging from his trees ; amongst these 
idlers was a fine young man, whose trim moustache, erect 
carriage, and short, well-brushed hair, stamped him in the 
eyes of bystanders as a military officer. 

Little artificial light fell on the mill-pond between the broad 
masses of slmdow r cast over it by the trees, but it gleamed 
with some faint reflections of fading rose-light still lingering 
in the sky. Some cart-horses were taking their evening 
draught at the water’s edge, and now and then indulging in 
clumsy gambols before trotting sedately back to their stables, 
unmoved by the unaccustomed light streaming from every 
aperture in the mill-front, and casting a mellow lustre on the 
broad leaves of the plane-tree, whence depended Chinese lan- 
terns and colored oil lamps. 

“ You are gay here to-night,” said the stranger, lounging at 
the end of the parapet, to the man in charge of the horses. 

“ We be gay, sir,” replied the man ; “ there baint a man on 
this blessed place to-night, indoors or out, excepting me and 
Sarah, the serang-ooman, and when I’ve racked up, there 
won’t be only she left.” 

“ The family gone out to see the sights ? ” 

“ Aye, they be all gone up top of down, to see em light the 
big bonfire. Terble fine doings, to be sure ! They do say 
as London itself cain’t beat Cleeve for lighting up and gineral 
lvalty. I never see nothen like it afore in all my barn days. 
And I hreckon ’tis nothen but bright now we’ve done for 
Wold Nick and put an end to this yer Rooshian job.” 

“Had you any friends in the East?” the officer asked. 

“ Well there ! there’s my master, he’d a got a bwoy there ; 
couldn’t do nothen with en at home. But darnee they wild 
uns never comes to no harm. Then there was my brother 
Jim, he got hisself knocked on the head at Balaclava, the 
Roosians pretty soon done for he. A smartish chap a was.” 

“And the good-for-nothing escaped?” asked the officer. 

“ When I says good-for-nothing, I don’t know as a was a 
bad un drough and drough,” continued the serving-man, “I 
never had nothen to say agen en. He’s coming home to- 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 37 

morrow, hrose to be a officer, they say. I hreckon this yer 
town wun’t be big enough to hold en.” 

“ Conceited ? ” 

“ Well, there, ’t was like this yer, he was rared above his 
vittles. He wouldn’t bide nowhere. Master bound en to a 
lawyer. A wouldn’t bide long with he. Then a bound to 
wold Dr. Maule, and darned if a didn’t knock the wold chap 
down one night. Then a goes out in street and knocks 
the parson down and gets hisself penned up in station. 
Master he thinks he med so well knock Rooshians down while 
he’s about it, so a sends en off to the war. Misable wild 
chap ! Good night, sir, and thankee.” 

-V Miserable wild chap ! ” laughed the officer to himself, as 
he strolled up and down and looked thoughtfully at the 
homely mill and house so strangely transformed by the festal 
lights. He looked at the sleepy little town sparkling out into 
midsummer midnight madness, the very church tower a pil- 
lar of light, now blue, now red, and now lilac, and the red 
flame of bonfires on the hills, leaping into the pale summer 
sky ; until among the sparse slowly moving figures on the 
hill-road his quick eye detected an elderly man and woman 
and a slender girl whose golden hair gleaming in the lights 
made his heart beat. 

He knew so well which way they would come in, not by the 
front door, but round by the lilac bushes to the kitchen, at 
the door of which stood Sarah looking up at the rain of rock- 
ets in the sky. Swift as a thought he glided round, unob- 
served by the servant, and then as they approached, stepped 
tranquilly forth to meet them. 

“Sir,” exclaimed the miller, stopping short when he saw 
him with something between defiance and welcome, “ what 
might you be pleased to want ? ” 

“Don’t you — don’t you know me? ” faltered Philip with a 
hot pain in his eyes. 

Jessie gave a little cry of delighted surprise, and Mrs. 
Meade rushed forward and clasped the stranger in her arms. 

“ Lord ha mercy ! ” exclaimed her husband at intervals, 
“ this can’t be Philip. Why, bless the boy,” he added when 
his mother and sister had duly welcomed him, “Sir Arthur 
Medway could not have bred up a finer gentleman than he’s 
made of himself.” 

There was little sleep at the mill that night, so much had 
to be related on both sides, but especially on Philip’s ; the 
dawn stole in through the parlor window and made the can- 
dle-light pale, before anyone thought of going to bed. 


38 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ If you had but been a cavalry-soldier, Philip,” Jessie said, 
“ you might have been one of the Light Brigade at Bala- 
clava, like Mr. Medway.” 

“ Aye, and finely cockered up is young Mr. Medway,” said 
Matthew, “ enough to turn any young fellow’s head.” 

“Lucky fellow! to be in that,” Philip said. “Jessie, I 
have brought you a pet and one for father.” 

Mr. Meade’s pet was a Russian poodle, a mass of black wool, 
with little beady eyes invisible beneath the long fell falling 
over its face. Jessie’s an iron-gray cat on three legs, with 
one eye missing, a scarred body, and the worst temper ever 
known in a cat. 

Sebastopol, as this unprepossessing animal was called, had 
belonged in her kittenhood to a young boy-bugler, who had 
done a very gallant thing. All the officers commanding a 
detachment of his regiment had been killed in a night skir- 
mish, Philip told them, and the men, without leaders, were 
firing upon one another in the darkness, when this brave lad 
ran into a field out of range of the ambushed enemy, sounded 
the assembly, and so collected and saved the scattered rem- 
nants of the band. One morning during the terrible winter 
before Sebastopol the brave little bugler was found dead of 
cold and privation, with the kitten clasped to his breast and 
mewing piteously. The kitten had been cherished for the 
boy’s sake, and had seen so much active service with her regi- 
ment that eight of her nine lives and all of her sweet temper 
had been lost in battle. 

Jessie’s eyes sparkled at the recital of Sebastopol’s history, 
no pet could have been more to her mind than this cross- 
grained scarred creature, whom she took at once to her 
heart, heedless of growls and scratches, and cherished for- 
ever. 

She would have liked Philip to relate his Crimean advent- 
ures from morning till night, they never tired her. 

Sometimes of an evening in the garden while Mr. Meade 
smoked, Mrs. Meade and Jessie were busy with their needles, 
and perhaps a neighbor had dropped in, and Philip was 
gradually beguiled into Crimean reminiscences, he was 
startled by the intensity of Jessie’s absorbed blue eyes upon 
him, as she sat motionless in the background, her work lying- 
forgotten in her lap, her slender hands clasped, her thoughts 
far away on battle-fields or among the hazards and horrors of 
the icy winter siege. There was a magnetism in the intent 
dream-hazed face which insensibly stole Philip’s memories 
from him until he too forgot himself and wandered mentally 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


39 


among those past scenes, reproducing them almost involun- 
tarily like one in a magnetic sleep. Balaclava was Jessie’s 
favorite battle. Philip had seen something of the charge of 
the six hundred, and heard more of Claude Medway’s gallant 
deed in entering the deadly defile a second time to rescue a 
wounded trooper under the fierce fire. The grand charge, of 
the heavy brigade appealed less to her imagination, and 
Philip had not seen anything of the Russian cavalry charge 
and its splendid repulse by the Ninety-third Highlanders, the 
redoubtable “ thin red line.” 

“ I don’t know, Mr. Randal,” observed Mr. Cheeseman, the 
corn-dealer, during one of these social evenings, “ that I should 
care myself to go into battle. Shouldn’t like the feel of cold 
steel in my inside. And when my time comes, I should like 
it all done proper on my bed, doctors and nurses and clergy- 
men, and a respectable funeral at the end. I can’t abide be- 
ing hurried ; never could. Somehow it don’t seem decent 
to go out of the world in*such a deuce of a hurry. Our fam- 
ily always died respectable in their beds and left everything 
regular down to the last farthing and the hatbands. Now I 
dare say j r ou went into Alma as bold as a lion and took no 
more notice of cannon-balls flying about than if they’d been 
snowflakes. I should a turned as white as the stem of this 
pipe.” 

“I don’t know what color I turned, Mr. Cheeseman,” re- 
plied Philip, “ but I do know that I felt awfully queer that day 
when we crossed the Alma. I had never been under fire be- 
fore, and it is a precious queer feeling, I can tell you. When 
the enemy opened fire from the heights we began to advance. 
My knees shook, and there was a sound like the sea in my 
ears. I seemed to see them all at home and know what 
they were doing at the moment, and I remembered every- 
thing I had ever done. We marched into a confusion of 
roaring cannon, rattling musketry, galloping aides, clouds of 
smoke and dust with flashes of fire and gleams of steel be- 
tween ; w r e had a general sense of moving masses, like the 
moving of the sea. While we were advancing I was all right, 
quite happy. Then we halted and I felt queer and shivery 
again. There we stood for a good hour, and the battle came 
surging gradually upon us like a great sea-wave. A laughing 
Irishman next me was twitting me with being afraid, when 
he fell-shot dead at my feet, the smile still on his face and 
his blood splashing over me. Soon the fire was so hot that 
we shifted out of range. Just then our colonel rode down 
the ranks, pale, and with his bridle-hand quivering, brave 


40 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


man as he was and proved himself there. He bid us stand 
firm a little longer ; while he was speaking, a shot rolled 
him and his charger together in the dust. He was soon on 
his feet and finished his speech, only the horse was killed. 
Then at last we advanced under fire of a battery, holding our 
own fire. The movement was like a drink of wine to us, it 
gave us new life. By this time I knew all the different sounds 
of the different kinds of shot and shell, and started at noth- 
ing. At last the order to fire came and we went mad I sup- 
pose, for I remember nothing after the first splendid excite- 
ment but a hurly-hurly of smoke and shot and the gleam of 
bayonets, sabres, and men’s eyes. Then gradually through 
the thunder of guns and quick Crack of muskets pierced 
bugle calls, words of command, shrieks of horses, groans of 
men unheard before. Then English cheers and French 
shouts became more frequent, battery after battery was si- 
lenced, and before evening we were firing at the Russians’ 
backs, and stumbling over the arms they threw away as they 
ran.” 

“And so the battle of the Alma was won after four hours’ 
fighting,” added Mr. Meade. “ ’Twas a September 26, 1854, a 
fine sunny autumn day. Jessie was out blackberrying.” 

“Dear heart, yes,” added Mrs. Meade ; “and toward night 
it thundered and made me think of Russian guns. Balaclava 
day was later. There’s elderberry wine now, I made that day ; 
walnuts were turning ripe, and there was a dahlia show in 
Marwell Park. Mr. Ingle by was there, and his brother lying 
dead on the field and Mr. Medway badly wounded.” 

“ Victory’s a fine thing,” said Mr. Clieeseman, settling him- 
self cosily in his chair in the sunshine, “ though I’d as soon 
lose as win, I reckon, if I’d run my head agen a cannon-ball. 
I’ll warrant you slept well after Alma, Mr. Randal.” 

“We did, Mr. Clieeseman. But you wouldn’t sleep to- 
night, Jessie, if I told you what the field looked like. We 
lost three officers that day, our whole force only lost twenty- 
six, and our ranks were terribly cut up. After all, the roll- 
call is the worst part of an engagement. It turns you sick 
to hear name after name and no answer.” 

“And were you as frightened at Balaclava, Philip?” Jessie 
asked with some disdain. 

“No, Miss Fire-Eater,” he replied with a grave smile ; 
“but I never have and never shall go into action without hor- 
ror and dread, though one feels a terrible joy in the thick of 
it. Wait till you hear a wounded horse cry, Jessie. And 
that is a small part of the horror of war,” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


41 


“ Why not sell out and settle to business, young sir, if you 
don’t like war ? ” suggested Mr. Cheeseman. 

“ The very reason not to sell out, Mr. Cheeseman ; why a 
soldier’s chief duty is to promote peace.” 

“ Well now, Phil, that’s a queer notion,” objected Mr. 
Meade. 

“Besides, my dear,” added Mrs. Meade, bewildered, “how 
can you love your enemies when you shoot them ? ” 

“Why, that makes us love them all the better, mother. 
You always like a fellow you’ve licked. And you only care to 
fight good fellows. Those Russians are splendid fellows, 
much finer soldiers than the French. Well worth licking 
they are.” 

“ Well ! I don’t know but I’d as soon you didn’t take a 
fancy to me, if that’s how you show it,” commented Mr. 
Cheeseman. 

“ But it was our duty to fight the Russians and theirs to 
defend their country,” contended Philip ; “ so how could there 
be bad blood between us. Why, mother, one day in some 
public gardens, I heard a Russian cavalry officer on crutches 
with a bandaged head, ask an Englishman in plain clothes to 
what regiment some Highlanders belonged. ‘ To the Ninety- 
third Highlanders, my own,’ he replied. ‘ Then, sir,’ said 
the wounded Russian, ‘permit me the honor of shaking- 
hands with you. I belonged to the brigade of cavalry whose 
charge you repulsed so grandly at Balaclava. I had the honor 
of being wounded in that charge. I at once recognized the 
uniform.’ Now, mother, if that isn’t loving an enemy, I don’t 
know what is.” 

Philip’s cheek glowed as he spoke, he looked at Jessie, who 
turned away, her eyes full of tears, a sense of the chivalry of 
war and the grandeur of human emotion rushing over her 
like a billow. 

Mr. Cheeseman left ; and Philip was moved by the electric 
glance of Jessie’s tear-bright eyes ; his heart went out 
io her. What could this helpless creature, pathetic in her 
childish beauty, know of the stern realities of life ? Surely 
this fragile thing was made to know only its joys and graces, 
to be cherished and guarded ; tears should never cloud the 
innocent blue eyes, or sorrow bow the bright golden head. 
He could not take Jessie seriously ; she was a sublimated kind 
of toy to him, a thing akin to kittens, flowers, and sunbeams. 
He drew her on to his knee and passed his hand through the 
waves of her bright falling hair, and her beauty, which he had 
hitherto enjoyed without considering, like sunshine and field- 


42 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


flowers, suddenly became apparent to him as something dis 
tinctive, full of promise for the future. 

“And pray, miss, what do you learn at Miss Blushford’s, ” 
he asked, “ besides spelling and needlework ? ” 

“ Manners,” Jessie returned, demurely, and tossing back her 
golden mane into his face, she sprang to the rescue of the 
maimed veteran cat, who was drawn up on a flower-bed in 
two arches of bristling fur, supported on three indignantly 
quivering legs, and swearing lustily at the impertinent per- 
sonalities of the Russian poodle, whose tail was wagging mis- 
chievously. 

“ She will be a woman soon,” he said, half to himself, while 
his thoughts vainly strove to fashion some future for her. 

“ Turned fifteen,” added Mr. Meade, with tranquil content- 
ment, “knows French and most things.” 

The sun had long set, but the evening was so balmy that 
they still lingered in the garden among the scents of sweet- 
briar, roses, and honeysuckles, and Mr. Meade, after some 
consideration, filled another pipe and watched the flight of a 
bat with a look of unutterable enjoyment. 

It was a time of intense happiness and pride to him, the 
happiest time he had ever known ; though, on the whole, as he 
had told his wife, he had had a happy life. 

His heart swelled with love and pride whenever his eyes 
rested on Philip and Jessie ; such a pair, he thought, could 
not be matched. He had reared the boy to be a gentleman, 
and there he stood, tall, straight, and strong, looking so dis- 
tinguished in comparison with the simple burghers of Cleeve, 
not only an “ officer and gentleman,” but a full-blown hero 
with medalled breast and a halo of glory, a little lion to 
Cleeve, feted and made much of. This lionizing, together 
with Mr. Meade’s undisguised pride and desire to show him 
off, would have been a trial to any youth not wholly destitute 
of modesty, or of that keen dislike to make one’s self ridiculous 
which so often does duty for that gracious quality, and was 
sometimes little short of an affliction to Philip, who, as his 
adopted father dimly perceived, had inherited fine instincts. 

Jessie, too, had been bred for a position far above her pa- 
rents’, and was beginning to develop certain dainty ways and 
airy-graces that filled the simple old man with delighted ad- 
miration, and did not trouble him with any fear as to the in- 
congruities and embarrassments such upbringing might pro- 
duce in her future life, as it did Philip, whose eyes were now 
widely opened to much in this adopted home that he had ear- 
lier taken for granted, 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


43 


Something, a jarring unlovely note in the harmony of 
thought or deed, had stirred such feelings in Philip on this 
very evening ; he strolled beneath the apple-trees with Jessie 
in the tender summer dusk, followed and enfolded by the old 
man’s loving, proud gaze, with a vague pain at his heart. He 
stopped while Jessie bent toward the tall white lilies, shin- 
ing in their virgin splendor through the pale dusk, beneath 
shadowy branches, and leant against a gnarled apple-tree, 
looking from Jessie’s slender graceful figure to that of Mat- 
thew Meade, who was sitting in his shirt-sleeves and battered 
floury hat, just outside the best parlor window, through 
which Philip had heard his momentous dialogue with Sir Ar- 
thur Medway, with such strong heart-beats, years ago. A 
vision of Marwell Court with all its refined beauty and sub- 
dued splendor floated through his brain, the surroundings 
and companionships of such a home seemed more congenial, 
even more native to him than these with the inevitable jars. 
Was it fair to give such a choice to a child so young? Had 
he, perhaps, foolishly flung away his birthright, or bartered 
it for the pottage of a child’s familiar associations ? Certain 
ways, certain modes of speech peculiar to Stillbrooke Mill 
returned with irritating keenness to his mind ; he recalled 
bitterly certain social annoyances connected with his uncer- 
tain origin, as well as with his passage through the ranks. 
He was of age, the time of enlightenment was come ; perhaps 
when he knew his parentage he might claim a different rank. 

These thoughts flashed swiftly along his mind and flushed 
his cheek as he stood, but when he looked into the kind, worn 
face of his friend of friends, and remembered the workhouse, 
from which he had rescued him, and when his eyes rested on 
the homely figure of the woman who had so fenced his child- 
hood with love and care, his heart smote him and a rush of 
shame and self-loathing crimsoned his face. “Miserable snob 
: that I am ! ” he murmured, his native loyalty rising up in arms. 

Then taking Jessie’s hand he strolled up the turf path and 
resumed his seat on the bench by his parents’ side and joined 
in their homely talk, till Jessie and her mother went in-doors 
and Matthew rose in the warm light that now fell from the 
cloudless summer moon, and stretched himself with an air 
of content, meaning to follow them. But Philip, who had 
been silent and pensive for a while, detained him. “ Father,*” 
he said hurriedly, “ I am of age. I ought to know now who 
and what I am.” 

“ You’re a officer in Her Majesty’s army, a gentleman born, 
a gentleman by profession, and a gentleman by act, and a 


44 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


credit to them that reared you,” replied Mr. Meade. “ If I 
was you I wouldn’t ask no more.” 

“You told me to wait till I came of age and I waited,” 
Philip persisted. 

“ Look here, Phil,” said Mr. Meade. “ It’s like this. Every- 
thing is pleasant now ; your mother and me is glad to have 
you home safe and sound after the war ; ’tis like one of them 
warm spells in the fall ; it can’t last. Let’s enjoy ourselves 
while the Lord gives us the chance.” 

“ Then it is very bad ? ” 

Mr. Meade paused awhile, his unwonted flow of speech 
deserting him, then replied, slowly : “ Family things is like 
this, they stir folk up in their feelings — and there’s bygones 
— let sleeping dogs lie, say I.” 

“ I ought to know my true position, it may influence my 
actions,” urged Philip. 

“It won’t do that, Phil, I can answer for that. I’m 
bound to tell ye, my boy, I knows that well enough. But 
wait a bit longer, say six months. It’s nothing but right you 
should know somewhen. There’s happy times for most of us,” 
he added, earnestly, his gray eyes deepening and his homely 
figure taking on dignity, “ but they’re none too plentiful. We 
mustn’t look for them. We’ve had trouble and care, Heaven 
knows, and it do seem ungrateful when the Almighty as plain 
as tells us to be quiet and comfortable for we to go and stir 
up things has been laid by for years and years and no harm 
done. Who knows but trouble may be nigh.” 

Philip was silent ; he felt that he must respect this mood, 
but he wished to be reassured on one subject. He had re- 
cently been informed by a local banker that a small capital of 
several hundred pounds had been placed to his account by an 
anonymous person, and he required of Mr. Meade to tell him 
if he knew whence this came. 

Mr. Meade thought he could give a pretty shrewd guess, he 
replied, with a twinkle in his -eye, and on being further 
questioned, assured him that in taking the money he was 
taking the due of no one else and in no way injuring another ; 
that the source of the money was strictly honorable and 
such as he would in nowise ever regret or wish under any 
circumstances to repudiate. 

With these assurances Philip was content, and the remain- 
der of his leave sped in untroubled happiness. There were 
boating excursions and hay-makings. Cousin Jane and her 
family came to Stillbrooke, and the miller’s family passed long- 
sunny afternoons at Redwood’s Farm, There were pleasant, 


nr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


45 


long-drawn twilights in the garden when the day’s work was 
done, long chats between whiles while the miller leant over 
his half-door at the mill and Philip lounged outside with his 
pipe and the throb of the wheel and hushing rustle of the 
water made soft music. There was pride and pleasure at see- 
ing the lad made much of. Perhaps there was a little jealous 
fear in Mr. Meade’s anxiety to hear how Philip had fared at 
Marwell, where he dined and slept ; Claude Medway, who had 
renewed the boyish acquaintance in the Crimea, being at the 
court just then. Jessie, too, showed great interest in this 
visit, and liked to hear Philip’s generous boyish enthusiasm 
for the older Claude, who had displayed a dashing almost 
reckless bravery on many occasions, a gay and thoughtless 
daring on which the more imaginative and therefore sensitive 
Philip loved to dwell. 

“Yes, Medway is a fine officer, and a good fellow,” he said 
one day, “ fast, but then those hussars do. go the pace.” 

“What is fast, Philip?” asked Jessie, and Philip only 
pinched her delicate ear and laughed. He was very sorry 
when the time came to bid good-by, and the way in which 
she clung to him with little cries of “Ippie, Ippie,” at parting 
haunted him for days. 


CHAPTER II. 


AT THE BALL. 

By the time the days were beginning to lengthen again in 
1857 people had almost ceased to think of the Crimea and all 
its terrible lessons to the nation, no one dreamed of the more 
dreadful storm now lowering on the far East, and in part 
occasioned by eastern misconception of England’s strength 
in the Crimea. Even in India, where the first low mutterings 
of thunder had already been heard, some strange madness 
lulled the English to a perilous sense of security and blinded 
them to the handwriting blazing on the wall before them. 

At home people went on their usual comfortable half- 
hearted way, thinking, in spite of their recent rude awaken- 
ing from dreams of universal peace, that the mad race for 
wealth was not again to be interrupted, but that every man 
was to sit in the shadow of his own shop-front and eat the 
fruit of pale factory-hands’ drudgery, untroubled. People 
grumbled impartially at everything over their breakfast news- 
papers, reconstructing or destroying the British Constitution 
or propping up the venerable fabric according to the several 
mandates of their several journals, but not dreaming of more 
war. 

One night at the end of January, Philip Randal, now a 
fine, well-set up lad, with bright, keen eyes and a healthy 
brown face, found himself, very smart in his ball uniform, at 
a large military ball, trying very hard to look bored, but in 
reality full of enjoyment. He liked dancing and ladies’ soci- 
ety, and was fresh to gayeties of this kind. He wished the 
deficiency in ladies had been on the other side, but then, as 
so many of those gold laced, stalwart warriors lounging 
languidly against walls were too vain, too lazy, or too clumsy 
to dance, it did not matter much, since no lady is ever too 
tired, too bored, or too vain to dance, so he might have his 
share of partners, ineligible as he was. 

He thought of his little sister at home, when he saw so 
many fresh girl-faces in the brilliant whirl of dancers, bright 
as rolling sunset-clouds turning before him to the accompani- 
ment of love-laden waltz music on a fine string band. 


IJST THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


47 


There are people who despise waltz-music ; have they 
j ever been young? ever danced? ever flung themselves like 
swimmers upon those bright waves of melody, and stayed 
only by the pressure of one young hand upon another young 
waist, floated far away into ideal regions, rising and falling in 
spirit with the ebb and flow of the music ? Besides that poetry 
of motion which quivers so strongly through waltz music that 
I it is pain to sit still at its sound, it has all the tenderness, the 
| sadness, the infinite unconscious longing, the ethereal exalta- 
tion of youthful love. Young people listen to waltz music 
| with yearning, looking into the vague rich future ; old peo- 
ij pie listen with yearning and recall the golden past. 

“ I am never merry when I hear sweet music,” might be 
[ said of Strauss’s or Gungl’s waltzes. But the sadness seems 
j pleasanter than mirth. 

Philip listened, a pensive delight irradiating and refining 
( his features, which inclined to a square solidity, and, leaning 
; against his door-jamb, imagined Jessie one of that bright 
1 crowd of flower-decked, bejew r elled ladies, whose filmy dra- 
peries floated mistily about them and merged into one broad 
i mass of color with gold-laced scarlet and blue officers, with 
; the varied facings and decoration distinguishing hussars and 
| lancers, artillery and engineers, cavalry and infantry, the 
brilliance toned down here and there by the black-blot of a 
civilian dress. What a different blending of color some of 
those present had seen at Balaclava, when the heavy brigade 
wedged themselves through the gray mass of Kussian troops ! 
i Some of the dancers present had then starred the Russian 
i gray with English scarlet. 

Philip had left a two-days’ old letter on his mantelpiece. 

“ Dear old Ippie,” it began, “do write oftener. Four of 
. Miss Blushfords are still in love with you, five with the new 
. curate (not a quarter as nice as Mr. Ingleby), and two with the 
f drawing-master. They are such sillies, they steal his pencil- 
chips, and even his pencils, for keepsakes. He is always 
pleased with my drawings, so I mean to be a famous painter. 
What geese those officers must be ! How glad I am that you 
pretended to think the donkey they put in 3 T our cot was 
: Captain Hare, and took possession of his room instead. 
Father and mother are quite well ; so is Sebastopol. I leave 
school this half. Your affectionate sister, 

“Jessie Meade.” 

“They want me to be confirmed this spring, but I don’t want 
to be good yet. I should like some fun first.” 


48 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. . 


What a baby the sweet child was ! Yet she would soon be 
a woman, though always a tender, slight creature, a thing to 
be protected. And what was to become of her socially ? The 
more he thought of it the more impossible her position 
seemed. How could that dainty blossom-like creature dance 
with such rough fellows as her cousin, Roger Plummer, even 
if dancing were in vogue in that set? and by what possible 
door could she be admitted to more refined circles ? It had 
been better, he sometimes thought, if the child had been 
taught dairy and housework in place of Mangnall’s Questions, 
French, and piano-playing ; her hands would in that case 
have been rougher, her susceptibilities blunter, her face not 
less sweet, and her heart as pure ; Roger Plummer and young 
editions of Mr. Cheeseman would not then have jarred upon 
her, she would then "have no more thought of quarrelling with 
her place in life than a flower does. 

“ A violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye.” 

She would have blossomed sweetly, and as sweetly faded, 
untroubled and unnoticed, in her place. It never struck him 
that Jessie’s exquisite grace and refinement were as native to 
her as the perfume to the violet, and widely different from 
Miss Blushford’s thin and spurious veneer of history and 
arithmetic, her feeble pencil drawings, piano-strummings, 
and petty proprieties of speech and manner. When he took 
stock of the pretty young faces present and observed the 
ways of their owners, he felt that Jessie would do herself no 
discredit among them, he was not sure that many could sur- 
pass her. 

That one of those young faces surpassed not only Jessie’s 
but every other in the room, he was perfectly sure. He 
watched the slight young figure belonging to that flower-face, 
as it glided through the mazes of the waltz, with a deepening 
glow in his dark gray eyes, and a strange new fearful joy 
thrilled him when her soft floating drapery swept him in a 
sudden surge of the dance. A friend spoke to him, unheard, 
smiled at his absorbed earnest gaze, and passed on. 

“How are you, Randal ?” said a hussar captain, sauntering 
up to him later on, but Philip continued to gaze at the surging 
tide of waltzers, grave, rapt, unconscious, until the question 
was repeated, and the hussar, languidty smiling, laid a hand 
on the lad’s shoulder. 

“ Eh ? oh ? How are you, Medway ? ” he exclaimed, starting 
and flushing. “I didn’t hear you come up.” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 49 

“ Or see me, too hard hit,” he returned, his beautiful blue 
eyes full of mirth. “What is her name ? ” 

“Legion,” he returned, quickly. “Look, Medway, there’s 
not a really plain or ill-dressed woman in the room to- 
night.” 

Captain Medway smiled benevolently and lifted his eye- 
brows. “ Youthful enthusiasm, fine thing, refreshing,” he 
said. “ Awfully hot to-night, frightful crush, eh ? Don’t you 
dance?” 

“ Rather.” 

“Want a partner? Know my cousin, Miss Maynard? 
Girl in white over there ? ” 

Philip tried to look indifferent and not blush ; “ I — ah think 
I have met Miss Maynard,” he stammered, “I daresay she’s 
forgotten ; besides — ah — her card will be full by this time.” 

“ Oh, come along, look, she’s sitting down, introduce you 
again,” replied Captain Medway, amused at the subdued eager- 
ness on the lad’s honest brown face. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Randal is an old acquaintance,” said the pretty 
dark-eyed girl, in a low voice with a subdued warble in it, on 
his introduction. “ I am so sorry,” she added with genuine 
regret, “ not one dance left. Unless — ” she paused, looking 
at her cousin. 

“ Unless for once I’m magnanimous and give up. No — let 
me see,” taking her card. “I’m down for eleven, shall I sub- 
stitute Mr. Randal’s name, Ada ? ” 

“ Thank you.” Two gray eyes and two dark ones rested 
gratefully upon Claude Medway’s face, Ada Maynard floated 
away with her partner, and Medway’s well-built, well-carried 
figure passed slowly on with a certain princely grace, leaving 
Philip full of young gratitude and admiration. 

When the band struck up the first plaintive chords of No. 
11, Philip was already at Miss Maynard’s side, eager to claim 
her promise at the first moment possible. 

Two gliding steps and a turn, and they were off, borne away 
and away far from the prose of life, lost upon the fairy sea of 
that enchanted music, rising and falling upon the bright waves 
of its yearning melody, unconscious of physical being and 
motion, because of their very intensity and perfection, isolated 
in a common beatitude, they two alone, each revolving round 
the other as a sole centre and source of motion, as two stars 
cast into space free of any solar system, might do. At last, as 
if by common consent, they paused, breathless, flushed, radi- 
ant, and Philip guided his partner to a seat beneath a trophy 
of arms and flags, into which she sank smiling, while he leant 
4 


50 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


against a Union Jack above her, and, opening her fan, used it 
gently on her behalf. 

“ I sometimes wonder if there will be dancing in Heaven,” 
sighed Miss Maynard, who was still in her teens. 

“You dance so well, no wonder that you enjoy it,” he re- 
plied, wondering at the glory of the rich dark eyes, and the 
curled mazes of the deep black hair and the sweet curving of 
the warm red lips, “ I suppose you dance a great deal ? ” 

“Oh! no. I am only just out. This is only my second 
ball. And it will be the last, I am afraid.” 

“ Surely not. Why should it be so ? ” 

“My last at home, I mean. We go out to India, mother 
and I, next week,” she sighed. 

Philip sighed too. “ I am sorry,” he said, after a pause, 
“no more chance for me of another dance with you.” He 
left off using the fan and looked dreamily at the bright 
moving crowd with a sudden disenchantment. “ Poor little 
butterfly,” he thought, “you will be snapped up the moment 
you land.” Then she would be a flower-hovering butterffy 
no more; but a gentle little hearth cricket, guarded and 
sheltered by some strong man. Cherished or crushed, he 
wondered, with a sudden fear, as he turned and looked at 
the slight fragile form and delicate face. Could sorrow or 
suffering touch a thing so fair and tender? The thought 
was as preposterous as painful. Why, she would fade at the 
first touch of pain as a rose-leaf shrivels at the first breath 
of frost. Sunshine and soft airs should be hers through 
life. 

The waltz music was still rising and falling in golden 
wavelets, Philip and his charming partner were resting after 
another turn in a palm-shaded alcove talking the light nothings 
to which young voices and mutually charmed eyes lend 
enchanted meaning, when a dark shadow fell upon them from 
an approaching figure, and the repeated utterance of his 
name at last aroused Philip’s attention. He took a paper 
handed to him by a mysterious figure which glided swiftly 
away and was lost in the crowd. Miss Maynard turned her 
head, seeing his attention was thus claimed and looked at 
the brilliant figures fitfully seen dancing between the palm- 
leaves for a long space. 

When at length she turned her face toward Philip, his 
head was resting against the draped flags, his face had a 
bluish tint and his eyes the amazed stare of a wounded 
animal. 

“You are ill!” she exclaimed ; “what can I do ?” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


51 


“No, no,” he said, recollecting himself at the sound of her 
voice. “But it should have come before, hours before. Too 
late now, too late.” 

She read on the paper he showed her, “Your mother is 
dying. Come.” 

“And I cannot go till to-morrow ! ” he said. 

“You can go at once. A mail train passes through at 
two. It is not much past one now. If you are quick 
you can get leave and catch it. My brother has often caught 
it.” 


He started up at once and pushed through the whirling 
crowd. The music was all discords now, the people seemed 
spectres, bright eyes mocking phantoms, the flowers poison- 
ous, the lights burned blue and baleful. He had been danc- 
ing and fooling while his mother lay dying. 

His partner gazed after his retreating figure until it 
was lost in a maze of floating draperies and brilliant col- 
ors, and the tears gradually filled her eyes. “Poor fel- 
low!” she murmured, “poor boy! Has he a sister? or 
any one to care for him? I wish he had just said good- 
night.” 

Philip was able to obtain leave at once, and before long he 
had torn off his gay ball uniform, put on plain clothes, sprung 
into the mail train and was rushing swiftly through the dark- 
ness, a dreadful terror tearing at his heart. 

The train moved too slowly for him, flying past fields 
and woods, farms and hamlets, and park-girdled mansions, 
all covered up and hidden beneath the mirk as the future 
is hidden beneath the shadows of uncertainty, the throb- 
throb of the engine beating time in his brain to the melody 
of that last waltz. 

It was a cold night, he was glad to draw his coat- collar 
round his ears, and shivered in spite of his thick rug. It 
was not so pleasant to look out into the blank depths of sur- 
rounding night as into Ada Maynard’s eyes. 


“ All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes,” 

was the line that came to his memory and sung itself to the 
dance music. 

And amid all the thoughts crowding upon him at this first 
shock of bereaval, in the thousand memories, tender, happy, 
and sad, he still saw the bright face uplifted and heard the 
clear voice speaking, saw the white muslin and blush-roses, 
the rounded arms, rich dark hair, and hazel eyes lit up by the 


52 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


dawning spirit, and was glad in a way, though his heart bled 
and his conscience reproached him, as he thought of things 
he had done and left undone, and wondered why he had 
not been more tender and dutiful to her who had been more 
than mother to him and had never been harsh even in re- 
proof. 

It was too late now ; it always is too late when we think of 
these things with vain regret sharpened by the keen-edged 
pain of loss. 

The engine throbbed on to the melody of that last love- 
burdened waltz, stars passed in solemn shining procession 
over the heavens, until the gray wintry dawn paled them and 
the chill earth showed ghostly and desolate in the cold light. 

The sun had dispersed the mists and was shining with cold 
radiance, like a smile which conceals a sorrow, and the fore- 
noou was well advanced when he reached Cleeve, and took a 
fly in his haste to reach the Mill. It looked peaceful and 
pleasant when he drove up, the mill-wheel w r as turning with 
its familiar sound, scattering the diamond spray over the still 
sun-lit pool, the pigeons were wheeling about with clanging 
wings and iridescent breasts, the dogs barked cheerfully, a 
hen loudly announced that she had laid an egg, snow-drops 
gleamed white in the garden-borders, the window-panes 
sparkled in the sunshine, and Philip’s heart gave a joyful 
leap ; for the blinds were not down ; his mother lived. 

In a moment he was in the parlor, where Jessie was dozing 
by the fire after a long night of watching. She sprang up 
with a stifled cry to meet him, her eyes and mouth marked 
with purple shadows and her face pale as the snow-drops 
in the garden. 

“ My kitten ! My poor kitten ! ” cried Philip, using his pet 
name for her. Then he sat down, drawing her on to his knee 
and rocking her softly to and fro as if she were again the 
baby he had so often hushed to sleep, and Jessie cried as any 
baby might have done. 

Cousin Jane had opened the door softly and shut it again. 
“Poor things ! ” she said, “let them have their cry out, ’twill 
do them a power of good.” 

“ But you must go to her. She has been wanting you all 
night,” said Jessie, suddenly starting up. 

Then Dr. Maule and Cousin Jane came in, the latter with 
red eyes and haggard face, the former vigorously taking snuff 
and swearing beneath his breath. 

“Is there no hope, doctor?” Philip asked : “can nothing 
be done?” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


53 


“ Nothing, nothing, I tell you,” he replied, testily, “ keep 
quiet and don't make a row. Not that anything matters to 
her, poor soul. Confound you, Philip,” he added, “I ain’t a 
man of science, though I know more than you think ; but all 
the doctors in the world can’t help her now ! ” 

At this Mrs. Plummer began to cry again and unnecessarily 
besought Philip and Jessie to calm themselves, though they 
were both unmoved in their crushing sorrow. 

“ Now ma’am, stop that ! ” growled the doctor, who was 
himself shedding copious tears, “and take care of that girl. 
Let her cry, but make her eat.” And he bustled off, promis- 
ing to look in again. “As if there weren’t plenty of tiresome 
old women to spare in the town, without taking Mrs. Meade,” 
he grumbled as he went. 

“ She slipped on an apple-paring on the stone steps and 
hurt her spine, poor dear,” explained Mrs. Plummer, when he 
was gone. “I said to her only last Tuesday week, ‘Martha/ 
I said, ‘ that untidy hussy ’ll be the death of you some day.’ 
And so she was,” she added with a satisfied air. “But her 
mind is clear, my dear. And she wants you. Keep up before 
her, there’s a good lad, do.” 

When Philip reached his mother’s room, there was no more 
need to admonish him to be calm, for the sight before him 
effectually quieted him, and the memory of that day always 
lived in his mind as a solemn, sweet time of rest and peace. 

The spring sunshine poured itself unhindered into the 
room ; Jessie had placed a bunch of snow-drops, “ fair maids 
of February,” she called them, in her mother’s sight ; Sebas- 
topol winked comfortably with her only eye before the fire ; 
and Mrs. Meade herself, the centre of all the sorrow, smiled 
peacefully from her pillow. It was so strange, so solemn to 
Philip to find his mother idle ; it seemed impossible that the 
household wheels could run without her aid. But for this 
unnatural stillness, she did not differ from her usual self, and 
talked calmly of many little things she wished done when she 
should have started on her long journey. 

She was content and thankful to be spared a long illness. 
“Where there’s sickness,” she said, “it upsets a house. And 
all’s ready. My wedding sheets, Jane, you can lay your hand 
on. One for me and one to be kept against Meade’s burying. 
Yon’ve been a good husband, Matt,” she added later ; “ we’ve 
seen trouble together and we’ve had mercies. I’ve been over 
sharp at times, my dear; I set too much store on having 
things clean and tidy about me and men do make such a 
litter in a house. But you was always careful for a man, my 


54 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


dear, and shut doors after ye, and I wish my tongue had been 
softer.” 

At the close of the short sunshiny day she fell asleep, and 
when she woke, wandered a little. 

“ Mansions, many mansions,” she murmured, “ but I could 
do with the littlest house, so I could keep it clean and fresh 
for the angels to go in and out of and the four we lost.” 

Then she slept again, and Philip with gentle violence drew 
Jessie from the room. 


CHAPTER III. 


A CKUEL BLAST. 

The bright late-winter sunshine continued, but its softness 
wore away, there was a cold fierce unrelenting brilliance in 
the blank breadth of light pouring from the cloudless sky, it 
was that treacherous radiance through which the east wind 
stings with unsuspected sharpness ; icicles made fine filigree 
work round the mill-pond and depended from the bridge 
arches and the mill-wheel, the roads were like iron, the great 
willow on the bank shuddered in the keen wind, and com- 
plained audibly as if against some conscious cruelty ; all the 
little eager buds, which had been pushing too hastily forward 
in the genial air, stopped in their sheltering cases, rebuked 
and silent, and many little birds whose courtship had already 
made considerable progress, were obliged sorrowfully to 
postpone the wedding day, and drooped, disappointed and 
songless bunches of feathers, upon the dry, crackling boughs. 

This keen cruel wind raved exultingly over the open and ex- 
posed cemetery ; it lifted the pall from Mrs. Meade’s coffin 
and tossed the clergyman’s surplice irreverently about him 
and fluttered the leaves of his book ; it played with Philip 
Randal’s thick curly hair, and whistled derisively through the 
gray thin locks on Mr. Meade’s uncovered head. But neither 
Philip nor his father heeded the cold wind in the bitter blast 
of bereaval that beat upon them, as they stood by the yawn- 
ing grave, which swallowed up Philip’s childhood, and buried 
Matthew Meade’s youth and early manhood, the struggles of 
life’s noon and the soft sunbeams of declining years, making 
a dead silence of more than half his memories. He shivered 
while they drove slowly home, and scarcely took any notice 
when Jessie led him to an arm-chair by the blazing fire she 
had made and gave him some hot spiced drink. He con- 
tinued to shiver, and refused food ; it was too evident that 
the bitter wind had struck home. Cousin Jane, in whose 
hands he was now the gentlest of lambs, had him put into a 
warm bed at dusk and dosed him with various homely reme- 
dies of her own. 


56 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Dear heart/' she said after her last visit to him that night, 
“ I never thought to feel that loving to Matt Meade ; many a 
spar we’ve had together, to be sure. But to see him lying 
there, poor lamb, and taken’ whatever you give en, as meek 
as a babe, ’tis enough to melt the heart of a stone. And I’m 
sure I freely forgive him all — not that I didn’t give him as 
good as he sent. Dear, dear, I do think I never done your 
poor father justice, Jessie. It isn’t every man would take on 
like that for a wife, and it’s not a many I seen took so bad 
with a chill all of a sudden,” here Mrs. Plummer paused to 
cry with a cheerful sense of the value of her physic and nurs- 
ing, and of Mr. Meade’s double virtue both in falling ill and 
in appreciating it. 

“I never yet could be called a croaker,” she added, “but 
I’ve seen that in Matthew Meade’s face to-day is only seen 
once.” 

“ Mrs. Plummer,” cried Philip, “ don’t talk nonsense. Is 
this a proper way to speak before Jessie ? ” 

“ It shan’t be said that I didn’t prepare his family before- 
hand,” continued Mrs. Plummer, dolorously. 

“ I shall go for Maule at once,” said Philip, freeing Jessie’s 
slight and drooping form from the clasp in which he had 
taken it when he saw her stagger under her cousin’s words. 
“My poor Kitten, Father is upset, but there is nothing to 
fear.” 

Philip’s words were too true, there was nothing either to 
fear or hope for Mr. Meade ; the cold had struck to his vi- 
tals, and broken down as he was by the shock of his sudden 
sorrow he had not strength to throw it off, but succumbed 
at once. 

Four days after Mrs. Meade’s funeral, Philip and Jessie were 
watching by his bed in silence, as the evening was closing in. 

Mr. Meade had passed from delirium to stupor, and had 
lain unconscious for many hours ; but now it seemed to Philip, 
as the firelight played on the sick man’s features, that a light 
of intelligence was also playing fitfully upon them, and that 
the eyes gazed wistfully with a gleam of recognition and 
showed a mental struggle passing within. 

“ Do you know me father? ” he asked, bending down and 
speaking softly. 

“ Philip,” he replied, with a faint smile ; the effort of 
speaking overcame him and for a moment or two he re- 
lapsed into his stupor. Philip’s heart throbbed ; he made a 
sign to Jessie, but she did not heed it. She was reclining in 
an arm-chair on the other side of the hearth, her head 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


57 


drooped on her shoulder and her eyes closed. He could not 
bear to break her slumber, even with words of hope. So 
the silence throbbed on fitfully, marked by the light, thin 
crackling of flames, the faint fall of little cinders, and the 
tapping of a rose-spray on the window-pane. 

Philip had laid his strong pink hand on the brown purple - 
veined one lying on the coverlet, and felt his father's ebbing 
life-beats more strongly beneath the welcome touch, while 
the death-hazed eyes continued to gaze with dumb appeal 
into his. 

“ Dear father, do you want anything ? ” he asked. “ Jessie 
is here, asleep in the chair.” 

“ Money,” the sick man murmured faintly. “ All for you. 
Speculations — losses — sell the mill.” 

“I understand,” Philip replied, in a soothing voice ; “but 
you will be well again soon and set the mill going. Listen ; 
it is going now.” But even as Philip spoke the familiar 
throb, throb of the mill ceased, the wheel stood still and the- 
men went home for their Sunday rest. 

In the meantime the Miller spoke brokenly of mortgages, 
of his will, of which Philip was joint executor with Mr. Cheese- 
man, of Jessie, who was to be under their guardianship and 
that of Mrs. Plummer ; he seemed to gather strength as he 
spoke, and, having taken some restorative and asked Philip 
to raise him to a sitting posture, recovered his faculties in a 
brief flare-up of his flickering life. 

The precious moments flew ; but Philip could not bring 
himself to rouse Jessie from the sleep so long denied her. He 
had so much to hear in that gleam of consciousness for Jes- 
sie’s sake and must still keep back the burning long-re- 
pressed desire to learn the secret of his birth which would 
otherwise die with Matthew Meade. He wished that on his 
return from the Crimea his father had not persuaded him to 
wait a little and consider whether it was worth while to know 
a secret his young mother had taken such precautions to keep 
and which a curious chance alone had revealed to his adopted 
father. 

In the stirring days of the war the question of his birth 
had troubled him little, but the long months of garrison life 
at home had brought it strongly before him and he had lately 
decided that he must know it at the first opportunity. And 
now the last opportunity was slipping away with every beat 
of the ebbing pulse in his hand. 

“ Poor little Jessie ! ” her father sighed. “ It’s hard leaving 
her. And no mother. But you’ll be good to her. It troub- 


58 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


les me that I was not the husband I might have been. I 
didn’t consider how she was set on having things clean and 
straight, poor soul. I was rough at times — yes ; I was rough.” 
His eyes closed and Philip feared that the golden sands were 
run out. But the faint pulse beat on and suddenly quickened 
when Matthew Meade opened his eyes with a wide appealing 
gaze. “ She set her heart on it, poor soul,” he continued, 
“ though she never thought you was to be left alone and not 
relations enough to live together. Many a time we talked of 
it. Philip, you must marry Jessie,” he concluded, in tones so 
strong and urgent as almost to exhaust his ebbing breath, 
which came gaspingly and then seemed to stop. At the word 
“ marry,” which opened an entirely new world of thought and 
feeling to him, Philip started so violently and suddenly that 
he almost dropped the hand clinging to his, shook a table by 
the bedside so that the bottles upon it rattled and a glass fell 
against them with a faint crash that recalled the intelligence 
to the dying eyes fixed on Philip’s face. The crystalline 
tinkle broke through Jessie’s light slumber, she started up 
and came forward just as Philip, with a half dazed look, re- 
plied in the affirmative. 

“ My maid,” said Mr. Meade, taking her tremulous hand as 
she touched his in bending to kiss him with some broken 
words of joy that he was himself again. “I am going fast. 
But Philip will care for you. Look to him now — Jessie — you 
must marry Philip.” 

She could not speak, but she suffered her hand to be placed 
in Philip’s, which closed warmly upon it. Her father held 
the joined hands in his tremulous clasp with silent content 
awhile, then he whispered “ Promise.” 

They promised ; the old man’s fingers tightened on the two 
young hands ; his eyes grew hazy ; they saw nothing earthly 
in their blank gaze. 

“ Father ! ” cried Philip, “ who am I? Tell me before you 
go.” 

The haze of death once more cleared away, the eyes once 
more brightened with intelligence and rested lovingly on the 
young man’s face. “ Philip,” Mr. Meade replied with an ef- 
fort. “Philip!” 

The voice failed, the eyes clouded and remained fixed, the 
hand closed convulsively over those of the two young people. 
Just then the door opened softly and Mrs. Plummer stole noise- 
lessly in, followed by Dr. Maule. They stood still arrested by 
the sight. Mrs. Plummer with uplifted hands and startled gaze, 
the doctor hastily taking a pinch of snuff. The fire blazed up with 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


59 


sudden lustre — on Matthew Meade’s unconscious features, 
Jessie’s tumbled gold hair and tearful face, Philip’s look of 
agony, and the two young living hands clasped in the stiffen- 
ing fingers. Then it sank and left the group by the bed in 
shadow. 


CHAPTER IV. 


LEAVING THE OLD HOME. 

The next few weeks left upon Jessie’s mind a lasting 
impression of Philip, hollow-eyed and desperate, sitting before 
piles of papers and books, and sometimes breaking off to lean 
back in his chair, push his hands wildly through his hair 
until it literally stood on end, and gaze distractedly before 
him. 

“ Let me help you. I believe that I could at least do those 
things as well as you,” she said once ; “you are not made for 
business.” 

“ You poor dear kitten,” he replied with a tender smile, “ I 
wonder what you are made for, except to be taken care of.” 

Then he plunged into the papers again, troubled not so 
much by his supposed incapacity for business, as by the un- 
pleasing revelations the papers yielded, and wondering what 
demon had tempted Mr. Meade to speculate so madly. 

By the time he rejoined his regiment his labors were so far 
rewarded that he knew how Mr. Meade’s affairs stood, and 
found that when all was arranged and the mill sold, they 
might still hope to rescue a small residuum for Jessie, as they 
eventually did. 

But those things were not so quickly effected, and when he 
bid Jessie good-by it was with the assurance that he should 
constantly be running down to Cleeve to consult with Mr. 
Cheeseman and transact business. 

As he left Cleeve farther and farther behind a great weight 
rolled from Philip’s breast. The few weeks that had passed 
since that night of music and mirth when he had been so 
rudely awakened to the homely tragedy of life, had been too 
full of sorrow and care ; his youth rebelled against them. 
When he drove toward the barracks and the familiar cheerful 
notes of a bugle rang out upon the clear air, all the suffering 
and care and death of the last weeks faded away like a bad 
dream. How cheery the smart step of a firing-party return- 
ing to barracks sounded. How pleasant it was to see the 
sentries pacing up and down, how gay were the red-coated 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


61 


soldiers strolling to and from the barracks in thicker clusters 
near the gates, thinner farther off, like bees about the entrance 
of a hive. 

A few days later he was searching for something he mislaid, 
rummaging among clothes and making confusion worse con- 
founded, after the petulant fashion of male creatures under 
small discomforts, when he took the uniform worn at the ball 
and dashed it angrily on the floor. As it fell a small hard 
substance dropped from a pocket and rolled into a patch of 
sunlight with a ruddy scintillation from the sparkling facets of 
a jewel. He looked blankly at the glowing stone for a second, 
its rosy hue reflected in his face, and then picked it up re- 
membering how it had flashed at the white throat of his pretty 
partner Miss Maynard. It was then set in a locket ; it had 
fallen from its setting during the dance, and at her request 
he had searched' for and found it and put it in his pocket for 
safety. He did not know much about jewels, but this one 
struck him as being large for a ruby, and Miss Maynard had 
expressed some concern about it. The thing w r as vexatious ; 
the Maynards had sailed for India, he had no means of find- 
ing their address. By this time they were probably round- 
ing the Cape, and by this time the intimate social rela- 
tions on shipboard had no doubt done their work and Miss 
Ada had doubtless promised her butterfly affections to some 
fellow-passenger — some long-legged idiot with a sabre clank- 
ing at his heels, Philip reflected. He could do nothing 
but place the stone in safety and seize the first opportunity 
of restoring it to its owner. It lay in the palm of his hand, 
the brilliance flashing from its deep crimson heart, like a 
live thing. Dark rose red like joy and love, sparkling with 
the sparkle of wine and mirth, the shining gem seemed to dis- 
close a new world to him. His hand thrilled so with vague 
desire that the jewel, lightly and imperceptibly quivering, 
shook back the sun rays in a thousand sharp, bright flashes. 
Some dim recollections of magic in jewels, of fascination exer- 
cised upon men and women, by these fiery-hearted things 
came to him ; was there not enchantment in this ? Though 
he did not know it, blood had been shed for that stone’s sake, 
it had flashed from the dim shrine of an Indian Temple upon 
dusky worshippers and strange heathen rites, had glowed in 
the turban of an Indian prince, had been stolen, swallowed, 
bought and sold, set and reset, given in love, given in tribute, 
before it came to deck the throat of a thoughtless girl, who 
lost it. 

He held it long in his open palm, absorbed in a kind of 


62 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


dream, then he closed his fingers over the red radiance and 
shut it away in a dark safe place. 

‘ ‘ Tliou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 

And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong,” 

he said to himself, and his face was sad until he went out into 
the bright spring sunshine and thought of other things. 

Jessie remained at the mill, clinging to the old empty nest, 
poor forlorn bird that she was. Bills announcing the sale of 
the furniture were pasted on the garden wall and the mill- 
front, but while the chairs and tables still remained, Jessie 
begged not to be moved. 

It was now early April, the almond- tree by the gate spread 
a mass of pink blossom against the pale blue sky, violets and 
hyacinths were sweet in the borders, the flowering currant 
made a pungent fragrance in the sunshine and attracted the 
bees from the hives at the top of the garden — even the bees 
were to be sold. Jessie strolled over the little domain of 
which she had all her life been queen with an overflowing 
heart, bidding a mute farewell to her life-long friends, ani- 
mate and inanimate. The garden, the arbor, in which her 
father had smoked on summer evenings, the strawberry-beds, 
the garden-plots she and Philip had called their own, the lit- 
tle house he had built in the wood-yard, the swing in the 
orchard, the flowers her mother had cultivated and loved, the 
pigeons and poultry, the row of bee-hives, all were beloved, 
all twined with life-long associations, they were part of her- 
self, without them she would not longer be Jessie. She 
looked in at the grated dairy window and pictured her 
mother busy among the pans of thick creamed milk, or turn- 
ing and working great golden masses of butter with a quick, 
deft hand ; she would never see her any more ; a stranger 
would stand there and desecrate the place with an alien 
touch. Jessie’s throat swelled chokingly and she turned 
away, passing the mill, over the half-door of which she would 
never more see her father leaning, as she half expected to 
see him lean now. Past the mill, whence the soothing home- 
like throb, throb, still issued, though he was not there to set 
the familiar pulse going, she strolled into the meadow, full 
now of young innocent-faced daisies, where the stately willow 
drooped leafless above the clear water and the white swan 
glided over it, her pure plumage dazzling in the spring sun- 
beams. How often she had played or dreamed there, care- 
less and happy in the willow’s shade, watching the water 
striving with perpetual baffling to climb the wheel’s always 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


63 


turning stair, wasting and scattering itself in crystal spray in 
its fruitless endeavor. She used to be sorry for the baffled 
water till Philip laughed at her and showed her how the en- 
deavor was not indeed fruitless, but set all the wheels and 
cogs going to grind the corn into meal for men’s food. 
Others would watch the turning wheel, and pity the water’s 
weary baffling, and she would be away and lonely among 
strangers ; but Philip, dear Philip, was left — she was not all 
desolate. Then the singing of birds fell pleasantly on her 
ears, and she went back to the house, thinking that perhaps 
it was well she was to leave the old home, after all. She 
went in through the kitchen, where she sat awhile to talk to 
Sarah and to be comforted and companioned a little. 

“I can’t give up this yer dresser, Miss Jessie,” Sarah said, 
“the years and years I’ve a scoured en kep en white. I be 
gwine to bid for he. You go on in and hev tea now, I’ve a 
made ye some scones, and there’s a letter from Master Philip.” 

Jessie went into the parlor with something more of a dance 
in her step than it had had for a long time, and eagerly 
opened Philip’s letter. 

Poor Jessie ! the letter was dropped on the table, the 
golden head was upon it, and she was crying bitterly. Philip 
was ordered to India ! 

He had kept it from her as long as he could, but he was 
coming down on the morrow and could not bear the telling 
by word of mouth, so broke it in the letter. He would re- 
main in England as long as possible, not sailing in the troop- 
ship, but starting later, taking the short overland route and 
joining his regiment on its arrival at Calcutta. 

He arrived in Cleeve on the day the mill was given over to 
the auctioneer, and saw Jessie in Miss Blushford’s drawing- 
room, feeling half guilty at leaving her. 

“ How well you are looking, child,” he said with forced 
gayety ; “ why, I do believe you are grown.” 

He held her at arm’s length, as if to get a better view of 
her, but his glance travelled no higher than her shoulders and 
she saw that there was a faint quiver on his lip. 

“ I am grown,” she replied, “I have grown very fast this 
spring,” Jessie’s lip quivered too ; neither of them knew what 
to say, the subject of the parting was too painful, they sat side 
by side on Miss Blushford’s ample old-fashioned sofa which 
was covered with needle-work from past and present pupils, 
and looked sorrowfully at the well-saved carpet for some 

minutes. , ' 

“ Jessie,” said Philip at last, “ it breaks my heart to think 


64 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


of leaving you just now, but — I will not go if you tell me to 
stay.” 

“ But how can you help it ? ” she asked, surprised. 

“ I can sell out,” he replied. 

“ But if you sold out, Philip, what could you do ? ” Jessie 
asked, simply. 

“ Heaven knows. I might learn farming or some trade,” 
he answered ; “ anything would be better than to leave you if 
you felt it would be too lonely.” 

“You must not sell out,” she said, gently. “You forget that 
you are going to be a great soldier. Why, you always hoped 
for India, Phil.” 

“ Yes,” he replied, still looking at the neat carpet, so seldom 
profaned by the steps of men, “ if only I could be sure you 
were happy here, that no harm would come to you.” He paused 
and sighed, his heart was riven asunder by the two duties, 
one calling him abroad, one bidding him stay with Jessie. 
While away from her it had seemed comparatively easy to 
leave her, but now, in her presence and touched by the added 
sorrow he felt rather than saw in the child’s thin face, it 
seemed impossible. “ If you could say that you didn’t much 
care — that you could make yourself happy for this year until 
you could come out to me — whatever we may wish — they re- 
fuse their consent to your marriage till you are eighteen.” 

“I should think so,” she interrupted, a faint rose tingeing 
her transparent face. “It is no use to fret. You have to go to 
India, I have to stay here. After all, you may as well be in 
India as at Plymouth or Aldershot. You can’t very well live 
at Miss Blusliford’s, you see. And I can’t very well live in 
barracks. Miss Blushford says it will improve my style to 
write to you by every mail. And you will be able to de- 
scribe your tiger hunts and — oh ! all the wonderful things 
you will do and see ” 

Jessie’s eyes were full of tears though she was laughing, 
her voice broke into a little sob ; but Philip’s heart grew light 
as he listened, grateful to her for taking it so easily and spar- 
ing him the lamentations that would have made things so 
much worse. Yet he wondered that she was so slightly con- 
stituted and could take things so lightly. 

“ I am glad at least to be able to see you settled at Miss 
Blushford’s,” he said ; “ she is a kind old woman and must of 
course be prim in her position, and that will be all the better, 
it would be impossible to place you in safer hands. Shall 
you like it, Jessie? ” 

It was a crime even to look out of the window in that house. 


IJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


65 


while to say one hated anything was shocking and unladylike ; 
she wondered if prisons could be more cramping ; but it was 
better than living altogether with Cousin Jane, her only alter- 
native. 

“ I shall do very well here/’ she replied ; “ but you don’t 
know what it is to be a girl and be taken care of. If I were 
but a boy and could knock about as I liked ! ” 

“ You little rebel ! ” he exclaimed. “A precious pickle you 
would be as a boy ; you would want a thrashing a day at 
least.” 

Before he left England, and resigned Jessie to the tem- 
porary care of her other guardians, they went together to the 
graves of their father and mother, which Jessie had made 
pleasant with flowers and greenery. As he stood there, 
Philip thought of all that they had done for him. But for 
Matthew Meade’s beautiful charity to an orphaned child- waif, 
what might his lot have been ? A workhouse boy, a nameless, 
homeless unit in that mass of shipwrecked humanity, un- 
taught and unloved, what chance of even a decent life would 
have been his ? 

He was glad now that he had chosen the lowly home at Still- 
brooke rather than Marwell ; what would the more brilliant- 
seeming life have profited him if he had remained a compara- 
tive stranger to those two kind hearts, now stilled forever ? 

Yet he must now be a nameless, kinless man ; his last for- 
lorn hope that he might discover his own origin in looking 
through Mr. Meade’s papers was gone. He decided once for 
all to think no more of his dubious origin, from the knowl- 
edge of which, in spite of his efforts to learn it, he shrank, 
fearing dishonor. He felt that he ought to know, but since 
he had failed to find out from Matthew Meade, he would re- 
main henceforth ignorant. But for the Medways, the secret 
would have died with Mr. Meade. Something more than 
pride or fear restrained him from consulting Sir Arthur Med- 
way, who would probably conclude that Matthew Meade had 
told him all there was to know on his coming to man’s estate. 
And, after all, if there were any profit in knowing, they would 
surely have told him before. 

All who had cared for him and his orphan sister lay there 
beneath the turf ; he must carve out a place in life of his owrn. 

“ My loss was greater than yours, Jessie,” he said, after a 
long silence ; “I owed them more.” 

“ Yes,” she replied, looking up from her flowers with a 
faint smile. “ And I often thought they cared most for you. 
Especially father. They were so proud of you.” 

5 


66 


* IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ And I such a beast,” he thought. 

Then he asked Jessie to renew the death-bed promise, and 
they clasped hands solemnly over the graves, and he put a ring 
on her finger. 

“ Oh ! Philip,” she exclaimed, when they turned to leave 
the spot, “it is an opal ring.” 

“Don’t you like opals? ” he asked. “I thought you did ; 
that is why I chose them.” 

“ Ah ! but the bad luck ! ” 

“Foolish child,” he said, tenderly, his heart going out to 
her in a rush of pitying love, “ how can a true-love gift be 
unlucky ? ” 

They sat alone together in Mrs. Plummer’s house till late 
that night, counting die minutes. Next morning they drove 
together to Cleeve station, whence Philip started for Dover, 
on his way to India. 

Jessie stood on the platform by the carriage-door with him 
till the last moment ; every tick of the station clock seemed 
to beat some life out of their throbbing hearts ; they held 
each other’s hands, and when the last bell clanged and their 
hands were forced apart, the jangling strokes crashed on the 
two bruised young hearts. The pitiless engine panted away, 
Pliili]3 looked back till the bend of the road swallowed him 
up and he could no longer see Jessie, and the yearning gaze 
of each was met by vacancy. 

Then Cousin Jane, who had been standing at a bookstall 
showering tears upon the monthly magazines, came bustling 
forward and bid Jessie make haste home to Miss Blushford’s. 

“He’ll write from Dover to-night,” she said, “and that 
you’ll hev to-morrow. Then at Calais he’s to write, and at 
Paris. Dear, dear, what expense he’ll be at with postage, to 
be sure. Look up, Jessie, look up, ’tisn’t many of our sort 
can be engaged to a fine young officer like Philip.” 

Jessie did not heed, she saw nothing but Philip’s vanishing 
face ; it seemed as if her life had been violently wrenched 
from its place. 

As for Philip, he felt that all that was most vital in him was 
left behind with Jessie, while he rushed on aimlessly into a 
blank, homeless void. 

Yet one thought throbbed glowingly in his breast ; this 
agony of yearning, this tenacious clinging of the heart, 
meant nothing less than love. He was quite sure now he 
should love her and no other to the end of his life. 


CHAPTER V. 


miss blushford’s establishment for young ladies. 

In retrospect this year of Jessie Meade’s life seemed five. 
She shot up several inches in height and her mental and 
moral growth kept pace with the physical. The utter de- 
struction of her early associations, the loss of home, the sud« 
den and repeated irruption of death, gave her the emotional 
experience of years. The sorrow of her triple bereaval — for 
she was bereft, if only for a time, of Philip — was too great, 
she dared not think of it. Occupation was her great panacea. 
She had always done her school-tasks easily if unwillingly, 
she now manifested a hunger for knowledge, a hunger that 
Miss Blushford was unable to appease by the genteel, fringes 
of knowledge and the flimsy “ accomplishments ” which com- 
posed her school bill of fare. Happily Cleeve boasted of a 
fair public library to which Mr. Cheeseman w r as a subscriber, 
and in that library, which was little troubled by the corn- 
dealer himself, Jessie pastured at will. 

She had never dreamed that the universe was so wide, so 
wonderful, so teeming with interest — life seemed worth living- 
in spite of the shadows darkening it. One happy day she 
lighted on the “ Fairy Queene ; ” then she discovered Chaucer ; 
Shakespeare, duly Bowdlerized, had been presented to her in 
driblets in the school course, and was now commended to her 
in seven expurgated, calf-bound, musty volumes by Miss Blnsli- 
ford, who was in blissful ignorance of Chaucer’s infinitely 
direr need of a Bowdler. 

Miss Blushford had been too much edified at finding her 
pupil reading anything more solid than a story-book, to look 
for rocks ahead in books that bore the respectable word his- 
tory on their backs ; the ologies and onomies inspired her 


68 


XN THE HEART OX 1 THE STORM. 


with confidence ; it was not until the sad day when she 
found Jessie poring over a large volume inscribed with the 
alarming name of Byron, that she awoke to the duty of tast- 
ing the child’s mental food. Byron, carefully shrouded in 
brown paper, lest respectable citizens should be scandalized 
by seeing him borne openly through their streets, was 
promptly returned to the dusty shelf on which he had long 
mouldered by Miss Blushford’s own correct hands, and the 
works of Cowper were given to Jessie in compensation ; she 
was further bidden to devote more time to her “ accomplish- 
ments,” and in particular to paint a group of flowers on vel 
vet, and do some wool-work for the sofa. 

Poor Miss Blushford ! The evening following the proces- 
sion of Byron to his dusty seclusion was not a happy one for 
her. 

The girls were gone to bed, the assistant teacher was 
spending an evening out, and she was alone with her parlor 
boarder, who was apparently taking the opportunity of im- 
proving her mind by instructive conversation. Miss Blush- 
ford had conversed with fluent urbanity about an hour in 
reply to Jessie’s timid questions on history, literature, sci- 
ence, and art, under the impression that she w T as filling her 
listener’s mind from her own superabundant stores of knowl- 
edge, when all of a sudden it flashed upon her that she was 
playing the part, not of philosopher to disciple, but of pupil 
to examiner. Miss Blushford quickly turned the conversa- 
tion to lighter themes, and Jessie stitched thoughtfully at the 
abhorred wool-work, wondering if Miss Blushford’s colossal 
ignorance were normal in school-mistresses. 

Miss Blushford was a good woman and loved Jessie, who 
loved her in return. She was about fifty, upright, thin, 
exact, self-denying, timid, and rigid. "What intellect she ever 
possessed had been worn away in mill-horse drudgery and 
petty anxieties, what little knowledge she ever acquired 
frittered away in constant mechanical repetition to her pupils. 
Her school had a good reputation, it was select. Jessie had 
with great difficulty and much heart-searching been. admitted 
to it ; it was expensive, and yet Miss Blushford was poor. 
And she had nothing put by for old age or sickness. She 
was a lonely woman, yet she had many to support. 

In most families there is one helpless member dependent 
on the rest, it was so with the Blushfords ; one daughter was 
imbecile, Miss Blushford supported her in a private house. 
One male Blushford had failed early in business and passed his 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


69 


prime in hunting for odd jobs, looking for commissions, and 
hovering on the verge of bankruptcy, whence Miss Blushford 
"perpetually plucked him ; she educated his nine children and 
set them out in life. Her father’s second family she also 
educated and set out in life, and supported her stepmother 
till her death. No wonder Miss Blushford was poor. Her 
elder brothers were men of substance, it is true, but they had 
families whom they could not rob. Her elder sister “kept 
her carriage,” and w^as ashamed to own poor Bessie, but no 
help was forthcoming from her ; it was preposterous to sup- 
pose that her husband would rob his children to support .his 
wife’s relations ! So Bessie, upon whose youth one golden 
beam of romance had fallen, renounced the husband and 
children and carriage that she might have had, and drudged 
on, in most prosaic, unrecognized heroism, to maintain the 
helpless members, -winning little but the contempt of all in 
return. 

“ I wonder what poor Bessie will do now ? ” the family said, 
when anybody came to grief. 

But Jessie knew of Miss Blushford only that she was igno- 
rant, narrow, prim, and frugal — painfully frugal — so she chafed 
against her yoke, as her own nature expanded. After the 
Byron episode, Miss Blushford began telling her pupil that it 
was unfeminine as well as unladylike to read much ; it was par- 
ticularly unladylike to have strong feelings ; more unladylike 
still to wish to be independent and work for bread (which 
Jessie began to hint she should like to do). 

“ May I never do anything because 1 like it? Must I only 
do what men like me to do?” Jessie asked. 

“ Certainly, my dear,” Miss Blushford replied, with her 
little didactic air; “it is unfeminine to have strong likings. 
Gentlemen always know w r hat is truly feminine and ladylike. 
Sweetness, submission, unselfishness are the chief qualities 
required of females. Mr. Philip Randal justly observed in 
his last epistle to me : ‘I wish Miss Meade to read less and 
give more time to strictly feminine pursuits, such as needle- 
work, dancing, housekeeping, and accomplishments’” — such 
was Miss Blushford’s translation of Philip’s request that Jes- 
sie should not be made to learn too much. “Gentlemen 
dislike blue-stockings. Ladies of superior attainments should 
always endeavor to conceal them, lest they should be deemed 
unfeminine.” 

“I suppose, Miss Blushford,” said Jessie, “that it matters) 
nothing what women think, the great point is what people 
think of them.” OlO, it " cr / : ' J, 


70 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Quite so, my love.” 

“ Their conduct should be entirely ruled by public opin- 
ion ? ” continued Jessie, with a curious glitter of her eyes. 

“In everything, my sweet girl,” returned Miss Blushford, 
pleased at signs of grace in her charge. 

After this Jessie read with more ardor, but less candor. 
She did not hesitate to deceive Miss Blushford by false covers 
to her books, most of which she kept in a hiding-place she 
had discovered under the roof-tiles opening from her bed- 
room. Here also she kept a store of smuggled candles and 
matches, which she used to light her studies after her candle 
had been removed from her room. Was it not lawful to con- 
ceal things from children ? Jessie argued ; why, then, should 
a grown-up baby like Miss Blushford, however amiable, know 
all that she did ? 

The pupils came little in contact with Jessie, and when 
they did, regarded her with no sense of fellowship. As a 
parlor-boarder and grown-up young lady, they looked up to 
her, while the fact of her being engaged, and especially en- 
gaged to a fine young officer, invested her with all the glamour 
of romance. A letter from Philip created a flutter of pleasant 
excitement in the house ; unlike the pupils’ letters, it was in- 
violate ; Miss Blushford actually dared not open it. The let- 
ters came fast and thick at first, Philip dotted them all along 
his route, whenever he found a post-office. “ My own Jessie 
— My precious child — My darling,” they began, and were 
all heart-break and tenderness, but slightly relieved with 
sketches of travel as far as Calcutta, where they settled down 
into “Dearest Jessie,” and so continued at that affectionate 
level. 

Jessie’s letters were of necessity fewer, since she could not 
dot them along Philip’s route ; they too were at first tender 
and full of heart-break, but resigned and meek ; they lacked 
the stormy revolt of Philip’s ; gradually the tenderness and 
heart-break faded out of them, and the letters on both sides 
became chronicles of what befell each, mingled with requests 
on Jessie’s part and good advice by way of answer from Philip. 
Almost immediately after he started for India, the news of 
the Meerut and Delhi outbreaks thundered through England, 
to be followed by still more tragic tidings throughout the 
summer and autumn. 

As each tragic episode in the drama of the Mutiny unfolded 
itself and was told in England with all the exaggerations of 
fear, mystery, pity, and indignation, a sort of madness seized 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


71 


upon the people, to whom the knowledge that Christian 
women and children of their own race were slaughtered and 
tortured by that inferior and subject heathen race they had 
been accustomed to hold so cheaply, was a horror beyond en- 
durance. War, which to other nations means invasion and 
the suffering, if not the slaying, of women and children, the 
breaking up of homes, with famine, fire, and pestilence, has a 
milder face for inviolate England, whose soldiers alone taste 
its immediate horrors. All the prejudices and antipathies of 
religion, race, and caste were stung into fierce vitality by the 
suffering and degradation of helpless English in India, whose 
countrymen at home were powerless to succor them. A wave 
of passionate vindictiveness swept over men’s hearts, an un- 
suspected trait in the national character was brought to light. 
Not only in India, where their position was so desperate, but 
at home, where people were maddened by their impotence, 
there were loud cries for vengeance — vengeance alone in its 
naked ferocity. Pious clergymen, peaceful laymen, gentle, 
kindly people, did not hesitate to say that no reprisals could 
be too severe for those monsters of iniquity, and much that 
was only said with impotent passion in England was done 
with steadier vindictiveness in India. 

It was a ghastly satire on our boasted progress and civiliza- 
tion ; it might have been still more ghastly but for a few 
brave and noble men, who turned a deaf ear to popular clamor 
and public obloquy, and did justly, and loved mercy even in 
that awful tempest. 

Jessie, in the conventual seclusion of her school, where 
newspapers were rare, heard little of these things ; she did 
not realize the awfulness of the crisis ; she had grown accus- 
tomed to war in the Crimean days, and feared comparatively 
little for Philip, even when she knew him to be in the thick 
of the fighting. Had he not already tried the fortune of 
war ? 

But in those rare occasions when she mingled with the out- 
side world, she was horror-struck at the way in which people 
talked of “those black devils,” and one or two passionate ex- 
pressions in Philip’s letters made her shiver and hope they 
were but momentary ebullitions, caused by righteous indig- 
nation at the first hearing of such cruelties as will forever 
throw a mournful horror upon the word Cawnpore. She did 
not inquire too closely into Indian details ; she dared not let 
her thoughts dwell upon Philip’s danger, any more than upon 
her parents’ death ; she deliberately lulled the emotional side 


m THE HEART OF TEE STORM. 


72 

of her nature to sleep, by continuous strenuous mental occu- 
pation. Instinct told her that madness lay in feeling. 

She sat in the Redwoods’ pew at Marwell Church, on 
Christmas Day, with an aching heart, and heard the angels’ 
message of peace on earth with an awful sense of incongruity ; 
reminded that Philip, who had not written for months and 
was supposed to be shut up in Lucknow, if alive, was one of 
a small band beleaguered by innumerable foes reputed demons 
of cruelty ; when the familiar sentence which had so early 
struck her imagination, ‘‘for every battle of the warrior is 
with confused noise and garments rolled in blood,” rang 
through the church, she turned sick at the endless battle 
scenes it suggested, scenes in which Philip was ever present, 
dimly seen through fire-cloven clouds of smoke. “While 
shepherds watched their flocks,” she sang, her eyes clouded 
with tears, and, looking up, she became aware of the intent 
gaze of a lady in the Marwell Court pew — a gaze which was 
repeated and interrupted by the raising of Jessie’s eyes 
several times during the sermon. 

“ Whatever made Miss Lonsdale look our way like that ? ” 
Cousin Jane asked, at dinner. “There was nothing wrong 
with my bonnet, Jessie, was there? I am sure yourn was as 
neat as a new pin. And if Plummer did go to sleep with his 
mouth wide open, as though he expected the sermon to jump 
down his throat, it’s nothing but what she’ve been accustomed 
to ever since she was as high as the table. And I’m sure my 
mourning is deep enough for a sister.” 

Miss Lonsdale was at the same moment asking Lady Ger- 
trude who “ that charming girl in mourning ” with the Plum- 
mers was, and how a creature so graceful came among such 
rustics. 

“Charming girl? Graceful creature? Pathetic? Re- 
fined?” murmured Lady Gertrude, bewildered. “I saw no 
stranger, Clara, and I usually look round the church ; one 
owes it to the people.” 

“ Clara has discovered another prodigy,” said her cousin, 
Hugh Medway. “Be merciful, Clara. Leave the rose to 
wither on its stem.” 

“You probably mean little Jessie Meade, the miller’s 
daughter,” Sir Arthur added. “You must often have seen her 
before, Clara. She is certainly growing into a very nice look- 
ing girl. But the refinement soon wears off in that class.” 

This speech put Miss Lonsdale on her mettle. “ Do not 
imagine,” she replied, “ that our class has the monopoly of 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


73 


everything, Uncle Arthur. That sweet girl at no age could 
be anything but refined. She has a history, too, I saw it in 
her face. She moved among the rustics in coming out of 
church like a stray princess. These ridiculous aristocratic 
class prejudices ! ” 

“ Clara waves the red flag — A bas les aristocrates ! Vive 
le peuple souverain ? ” commented Hugh teasingly. “ My 
dear girl, I do so admire that little sweep of the hand ; it 
brushes the whole upper ten in a mass to perdition. It really 
is a pity that ladies cannot enter parliament.” 

“ It is,” she replied, with unabated majesty-. “ Jessie,” she 
added, musingly, “a caressing sort of name, soft but not 
sufficiently dignified for her.” 

A few days later Sir Arthur lamented in her hearing that, 
what with one thing and another, he had not a horse fit to 
ride that morning, and supposed he must walk. Redwoods 
was not so very far, but he wished also to call at Ferndale 
and Little Mar well. 

“Why not let me drive you?” Clara said; “the ponies 
want exercise, and I like an object for a drive.” 

“ Thank you, my dear, I shall be too glad to avail myself 
of the honor, if you do not mind pottering about with an old 
fellow,” he replied ; so the ponies were brought round, and 
they started, Sir Arthur half buried in furs like a Russian 
prince, his niece fully occupied with her ponies, who sniffed 
up the frosty air as they tossed their pretty manes and made 
believe to take every bush and stone for an enemy. 

They drove through the park, where the noble oaks and 
beeches bore fairy-like foliage of hoar-frost instead of green 
summer leaves on the fine tracery of their boughs, which 
sparkled with delicate jewel-flashes against the pale blue sky ; 
through the village, where the rime-crystals glittered on 
thatched roofs, and women at cottage doors dropped courte- 
sies ; past the inn with its swinging sign, the school-house 
with its hive-like hum, thence along the high road. They 
soon came to a comfortable farm-house standing a little way 
back from the road in a trim flower-garden, fenced by a low 
stone wall over which the dainty little “ roving sailor ” spread 
its shining trails, and yellow stone-crop and patches of green 
and gold moss crept. The house was of gray stone, half hid- 
den by creepers, which in summer made a very bower of 
bloom ; the tiled roof was richly embroidered by yellow 
lichen, that caught and kept the sunshine in reserve so as to 
throw a golden glow over gloomy days ; the warm brown 


74 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


tiles roofed the barns and other buildings in the yard, and 
were similarly embroidered by nature’s hand ; the pale yel- 
low stacks beneath a group of elms in the rick-yard glowed in 
the frosty sunbeams and sent out a rich odor of corn together 
with a pleasant radiance ; it was a sunny place, suggestive of 
summer and warm comfort. So Miss Lonsdale thought 
when she stopped the ponies at the garden gate, by an old- 
fashioned flight of stone steps in the wall. 


CHAPTER VI. 


KEDWOODS. 

The sound of wheels on the frost-bound road and the ap- 
parition of Miss Lonsdale’s bright-plumed hat above the 
hedge-row, occasioned a certain excitement within Redwoods 
Farm. 

“Patience alive !” exclaimed Mrs. Plummer, “Sir Arthur 
and Miss Lonsdale ! and me in a cap I wouldn’t be seen out 
of my own family with for five pounds. Dear ! dear ! to 
think that I must be brushing the cheese in my oldest dairy 
gown this morning of all others. ” 

“Never mind, cousin,” said Jessie, “people can’t expect 
you to be in full dress at this hour.” 

“Full dress ! Well, there, Jessie, I never did come across 
your equal for want of feeling,” complained Mrs. Plummer, 
in a tearful voice, “ and not so much as a clean collar or curls 
brushed out have I got to my name, and the sun showing every 
speck of dust. Well, to be sure ; you must run out, I suppose, 
and say I’ll be down in a minute, and Plummer’s only just 
gone out round. Only let me get clear off before they come 
in,” she concluded, brushing past Jessie and bustling upstairs 
as fast as her round and comfortable figure could go. 

You cannot brush and turn mity cheeses with clean hands 
or clean garments, and Mrs. Plummer’s appearance was cer- 
tainly far from magnificent. Her gown had seen hard service, 
her sleeves were rolled half-way up her plump, firm arms, a 
very dingy old shawl was pinned over her shoulders, her cap 
had reached the lowest rank in the cap scale, of which Jessie 
believed there were ten grades, each grade fitted flra* some spe- 
cial time and occupation ; the bunches of curls which adorned 
either side of her face at more ceremonial hours, were 
now rolled up in one solid curl on each temple, giving 
her round, apple-cheeked face a severity more suitable 
for awing serving-maids than for welcoming distinguished 
guests ; to crown all she wore, tied high up over the ends of 
the crossed shawl, a large, coarse apron, the strings of which 


76 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


refused to do anything but tie themselves in knots while she 
was shouting complaints and directions to Jessie. 

“ Well, if ever I was in a pickle for visitors ! ” she might 
well exclaim, on surveying herself in the glass. 

Jessie was soon opening the door to receive the guests; 
visitors very rarely had occasion to ring at Redwoods. It 
was deemed inhospitable not to go out to welcome them as 
soon as they appeared in sight. The sight of her caused 
Sir Arthur to remove his hat from his head and himself from 
the low pony chaise, and confirmed Miss Lonsdale in her 
admiration. The touch of the ungallant frost, which does 
not hesitate to nip the nose of rarest beauty, only brought a 
delicate rose to Jessie’s cheeks, the sunshine fell full in her 
face, causing her to lift one slender hand to shade her beau- 
tiful eyes, while with the other she held a light blue wrapper, 
one end of which was thrown over her head, beneath her 
chin ; her bright hair, the true “ chiome d’or all’ aura sparse ” 
so dear to Tasso, glittered in tiny ruffled rings about her 
temples, as if each separate hair were a beam of light. Ap- 
pearing thus, tall and slim, in her plain black dress, while 
some white pigeons, startled by the wheels, flew up with 
clanging wings and settled on the lichen-bordered brown 
roof above her, she was a delightful vision. She stepped 
lightly down the garden -walk, unconscious of the admira- 
tion she evoked, to ask Sir Arthur if he would walk in while 
she sent a boy to fetch Mr. Plummer, who w T as somewhere 
about the farm. 

Sir Arthur preferred to go in search of Mr. PJummer him- 
self, and when he was gone Jessie went out to ask Miss 
Lonsdale to come in. 

She assented with a smile, and laying the reins aside, - 
alighted. Tall, well made, warmly clad in rich furs, with the 
jewel-like breast of a bird glowing iridescent in her hat, with 
that indefinable air of one daily used to polished human in- 
tercourse and the constant homage due to an absolute grace 
of speech and movement — Clara Lonsdale seemed to Jessie, 
who rarely saw any but homely, often uncouth people, a being 
from a more gracious sphere, and her clear glance fell with a 
becoming deference before the penetrating gaze of the lady’s 
golden-brown eyes. 

“Not Mrs. Plummer’s daughter, I am sure,” she said, in a 
voice naturally musical, but the more so because of a softer 
accent than that to wdiicli Jessie was used. 

“No,” she replied, opening the door for Miss Lonsdale to 
pass in, “I am Mrs. Plummer’s cousin, Jessie Meade,” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


77 


She led her into a large, low room with heavy furniture, and 
two fair-sized casement windows with deep cushioned seats. 
Some sporting prints adorned the walls, two guns were on a 
rack over the chimney piece, massive silver tankards, gleamed 
upon a side-table, a bright fire blazed in a large grate with 
hobs to it, here stood a high-backed wooden arm-chair which 
Jessie placed for her guest. The battered form of Sebas- 
topol reposed in a tight tabby coil near the fire ; just 
in front of a window stood a small easel holding a canvas 
on which a landscape in oil was beginning to show ; pal- 
ettes, brushes, and tubes of color scattered near showed that 
the artist had but just left work. An old bureau with its 
sloping desk-top closed, stood against one wall, and a sofa, 
wide enough to serve for a bed at a pinch, was against another ; 
a few pots of growing flowers were in the window, and a dish 
of russet-red apples on the top of the bureau. All these de- 
tails Miss Lonsdale took in at one rapid glance. The interior 
was cosy, yet there was a lack of something — which she soon 
discovered to be books. These were few but not select. One 
leather broken-backed tome with an illegible title served to 
raise a flower-pot into the light, another made a press for Mrs. 
Plummer’s cap laces and ribbons. Jessie went straight to a 
cupboard by the fire-place and took out a dish of round 
golden-brown cakes and some decanters and wine-glasses, 
w hich she placed on the table, in accordance with the unwrit- 
ten custom that supposed all guests to be hungry. 

“Mrs. Plummer’s dough-nuts are irresistible,” Miss Lons- 
dale said, accepting one with a smile that went straight to 
Jessie’s fresh heart ; a rare smile that came slowly and made 
her seem beautiful, though not really so. 

Jessie smiled brightly back, the smile of a grateful child. 
“It would be no use,” she said, “ for my cousin to make dough- 
nuts, if no one came to appreciate them.” 

“There is reason in that,” Miss Lonsdale returned ; “there 
are in art two essential factors, the artist and the amateur or 
admirer.” 

“Yes,” Jessie rejoined, “it would be futile to write even an 
* Iliad,’ if there were no readers.” 

This, Miss Lonsdale reflected, was not what one might ex- 
pect from a miller’s daughter of eighteen, and wondered to 
what extent the young lady was conscious of her superiority. 
But Jessie, who sat on the other side of the hearth sideways 
to the window, in such a manner that the sunshine lighted her 
face and kindled the gold of her hair, looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of self. 


T8 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“You must be very lonely,” Miss Lonsdale said, with an 
abruptness that brought the color to Jessie’s face, yet with 
an accent that bespoke such a sympathy and accurate read- 
ing as she had not expected ; “forgive me,” she added, “but 
your face interested me when I saw you at church. I speak 
so plainly because I feel distinctly drawn to you.” 

“This is too kind,” Jessie faltered, “but you will be disap- 
pointed. I am not at all interesting, especially to myself. I 
would rather forget that I am alive.” 

“ Poor child ! ” said Clara, in a rich, caressing voice ; “ poor, 
dear child ! ” 

Jessie rose quickly and knelt before the fire, very busy at 
mending it, with her face averted from the lady. Clara smiled 
a peculiar little smile that Jessie could not see, and with ready 
tact went over to the easel. 

“ From nature ? ” she asked, with some surprise, when she 
saw the distant park with the village and church in the fore- 
ground all firmly and truly sketched. “ From nature in winter, 
too ! You have a good deal of feeling for landscape, Miss 
Meade.” 

Jessie had persuaded Philip, who recognized her decided 
talent, to let her exchange Miss Blushford’s fine pencil draw- 
ings and water-color flowers and fruit for lessons from a 
broken-down artist, whose constant potations had not been 
able to quench a spark of genius which might have brought 
him to the front rank, and under this man she had made some 
progress and learnt to cherish great hopes. Had she seen 
many of the great masters ? Who was her teacher ? Did 
she know the Claude Lorraine at Marwell Court ? Had she 
seen the De Wints and Constables ? She could scarcely be- 
lieve that Miss Meade had seen nothing and yet painted so 
charmingly. 

While they were standing thus at the easel, Cousin Jane, 
her curls beautifully arranged in glossy bunches on either 
cheek, with a cap five grades higher than that of the cheese- 
brushing, and her afternoon gown and apron on, came in and 
was complimented upon her dough-nuts. Almost at tlie same 
moment Sir Arthur was seen returning to the carriage, so 
Miss Lonsdale took leave and went out to join him, accom- 
panied by Jessie, who stood until the pony-phaeton with its 
smart groom, Russian prince Sir Arthur, and bright-plumed 
lady driver had vanished like some ethereal vision. 

Then she turned, delicately flushed with a pleasant excite- 
ment and ran with a springing step in from the frosty air, 
singing some snatch of song in the glow kindled by thispass- 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


79 


ing glimpse of another kind of life. A long dormant some- 
thing woke within her under the spell of the lady’s gracious 
presence ; her voice, her face, her smile set many currents 
astir in her half -petrified, half-crushed nature. It was wonder- 
ful to Jessie that she should at once have detected her lone- 
liness, not the loneliness natural to a young creature bereft 
of kindred and friends, but that more invincible loneliness of 
one who lives among uncongenial and unsympathetic natures. 
Even Philip had never seen this ; Philip, with all his tender- 
ness, held her but a slight, mindless, colorless creature. 

“ And to think,” mourned Mrs. Plummer, “ that the parlor 
should have been all littered up with your painting messes — 
and the smell too, as if the house was being done up — for com- 
pany to see.” 

“Miss Lonsdale paints herself, cousin,” Jessie replied, 
gently. “I don’t think she minded it. Please let me do a 
little more now the light is good. I will make all tidy by 
dinner-time.” 

“To be sure, Jessie, I’m not one to go against my own 
flesh and blood,” continued Mrs. Plummer, in a resigned voice ; 
“and if you are to be an officer’s lady, tidy ways of plain folk 
can’t be expected of you. But ’tis a pity. Many a time I’ve 
spoke to your poor mother against the way you was bred up, 
never to soil a hand. And I always told your poor father the 
day would come he’d repent it. But I might as well have 
tallied to that cat.” 

Sebastopol, whom Mrs. Plummer equally disliked and 
feared, was not the only waif from the mill that found refuge 
beneath her hospitable roof. It chanced that she needed both 
a dairy woman and a cow-man soon after Mr. Meade’s death, 
and set her heart upon Sarah, the maid, and Abraham Bush, 
the miller’s man. One obstacle prevented her from engaging 
them ; they were not married, and the Redwood’s cow-man 
and dairy-woman had always hitherto been man and wife. 
After some reflection, she commanded her husband to open 
negotiations with Abraham, and at a certain stage to inform 
him that his bachelor condition was a bar to the office. At 
the same time she broke ground with Sarah and lamented 
that it was impossible to come to terms with a woman who 
had no husband. 

“You never gave a thought to marrying, I suppose, Sarah,” 
she said at this stage. 

“I never encouraged nobody while poor Missus was alive,” 
Sarah replied; “but to be sure, a lorn ooman is lonesome 
when getting in years. It’s like this, Miss Plummer, I’ve had 


80 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


my own way this vive and forty year, and that’s pretty nigh 
so much as anybody hev a right to.” 

“To be sure, Sarah,” assented Mrs. Plummer, “you’ve had 
more liberty than^i woman ought to, and it is time you began 
to think of doing for some man going to rack and ruin for 
want of a wife ; you don’t know any steady widower-man who 
might be looking after you now, do you ? ” 

“ I knows two or dree looking after the bit of wage I’ve 
a put by,” Sarah replied, thoughtfully ; “ain’t a gwine to hev 
they, not as I know on.” 

“Abraham Bush has money of his own,” suggested Mrs. 
Plummer, cautiously. 

“Very like ; he’s a near one is Abram. Vine weather for 
gairdens, Miss Plummer, ain’t it ? ” 

Mrs. Plummer then put a similar question to Abraham. 

“Ay, I’ve thought o’ matrimony many a time,” Abraham 
replied. “I’ve always a thought better of it.” 

“You’ll be getting in years, Abraham,” Mrs. Plummer 
urged, “and you’ll find the want of a wife.” 

“ I’ve a vound it this vifty year,” returned Abraham, “ and 
I’ve vound the best sart of a want. It’s like this yer, mam. 
Materimony is terble easy to vail into, but t’s terble hard to 
vail out of.” 

“A nice, steady, hard-working woman with a bit of money 
put by, Abraham, would be the making of a man like 
you.” 

“I dunno as anybody’d hae me,” Abraham replied, in a re- 
lenting way; “but there, I need so well look round, Miss 
Plummer.” 

“ Look at Sarah,” suggested Mrs. Plummer. 

“Many’s the time I’ve looked at she,” said Abraham ; “a 
near one is Sarow.” 

“And such a dairy - woman ! ” sighed Mrs. Plummer. 
“Well, good evening, Bush, and if you should hear of a 
married couple without encumbrance, you’ll let us know.” 

“Yes, I’ll let ye know, mam.” 

The consequence was that one evening Abraham lounged 
into the Stillbrooke Mill kitchen, just before the auction took 
place, and sat thoughtfully staring at the fire in silence for 
some moments. Sarah sat at the other side of the hearth 
near the window with some needlework and wondered, as she 
had wondered for the last ten years, if Abraham was coming 
to the point. Abraham wondered on his part, as he had 
wondered for the last ten years on similar occasions, if he 
should succeed in coming to the point. At last, with a mighty 


ZZV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


81 


effort which made his very bones ache, he uttered the follow- 
ing pregnant words : 

“ I reckon I bain’t much of a one for marryen.” 

“More bain’t I, Abram,” returned Sarah, promptly. 

He was foiled, and began to wonder how many more years 
would pass by before he would again be able to open a parallel 
of such importance. The clock ticked on for some minutes, 
making a sort of rhythm with Sarah’s clicking needle ; 
Abraham scratched his head and moved uneasily in his chair, 
till at last he came out with, “ There aint no particular harm 
in materimony as I knows on, Sarow.” 

“ ’Tis well enough for some volk,” Sarah admitted, guard- 
edly. 

“ ’Tis hwrote in the Bible that two is better than one,” con- 
tended Abraham, after another perplexed five minutes of si- 
lence. 

“ Sure enough,” she replied, “I’d sooner hae two cows than 
one if they was giv’ me.” 

“ Lord ha massy ! ” groaned Abraham, within himself, “ I 
shan’t get drough with this in a week o’ Sundays. Wlio’d a 
thought the ooman was that dunch, and had such a power of 
words inside her ? ” 

“ I’ve always a said,” he continued, “ when I marries I 
shall hae a ooman by the name o’ Sarow to go long with 
Abram like the Bible.” 

“Hev ye now? Well there’s a plenty of Sarows to hev.” 

“ Sure enough, there’s a many Sairows, but they baint all 
up to dairy-work,” continued Abraham. 

“I ’lows they baint, Abram,” returned Sarah, with an air 
of grim abstraction. “ Sarow Cooke now, she caint so much 
as skim a pan o’milk, no sense. Poor missus used to hev her 
when I had that fever, you minds. Pretty nigh drove her 
crazy, Sarow did.” 

“I med so well go drough with ’t, now I’ve began,” thought 
Abraham to himself, “but darned if I ever asks another 
ooman to marry me, after this yer.” He cudgelled his brains 
in silence for some minutes, with his hands thrust into his 
pockets, his legs stretched out straight toward the fire, and 
his eyes contemplating his boots, which were powdered with 
fine meal like all his garments, his hair, and his face, over 
which his hat was firmly rammed for the double purpose of 
concealing his blushes and giving him a resolute air. 

Sarah, a wholesome, pleasant - faced woman with ruddy 
cheeks and strong, black hair tinged with gray, stitched dili- 
gently on with an imperturbable face. 

G 


82 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Massy me ! ” she thought to herself, “anybody med newst 
so well be made love to by a owl. Why caint the wold dun- 
derhead up and say ‘ Will ye hae me, Sarow ? ’ and ha’ done 
wi’ ’t?” 

“ Sarow,” continued Abraham, solemnly, “ me and you’s 
kep company together this vivteen year.” 

“Anybody must hae somebody to walk with,” returned 
Sarah, as if to exculpate herself from the charge. “You 
baint much to look at, to be sure.” 

“I’ve a hundred and vivty pound in bank!” he added, 
doggedly. 

“Hev ye?” 

“ Darn it all, Sarow,” cried Abraham, goaded to despera- 
tion. “Whatever’s the good o’ wiverin about like this yer? 
Well ye hae me or wunt ye ? ” 

“ Now you talk sense, Abram,” replied Sarah, judicially. “I 
dunno as I’m one fur marren, though. A man do make such 
a litter stabbling about house, smoking and wanting vittles 
all day long. I’ve kep clear o’ the men this vive and vorty 
year, and I done well enough.” 

“ Well, there ! if you wont hae, me, Miss Plummer wunt hae 
you. I dunno as you’re man enough fur the plaace after all, 
Sarow. Whoever takes on wuld master’s mill must hae a man 
I reckon,” he added, reflectively. “ I never was much fur mat- 
erimony meself. I’ve a tried zingleness this vivty year, and I 
never had no vault to vind wi’t. You can get out o’ single- 
ness, but once into materimony there you must bide.” 

“Sure enough, Abram, there you must bide,” commented 
Sarah, thoughtfully. 

“ Well, be ye gwine to hitch on to me or baint ye ? ” growled 
Abraham, wrenching himself from his chair with a view to 
taking his departure. 

“ Well, there ! ” slowly and deliberately replied Sarah, upon 
whom this significant gesture was not lost. “I ’lows I med 
so well hitch on, Abram. Miss Plummer do want me bad for 
the dairy. She’ve got a tongue, to be sure, but Lord, what’s 
a tongue when you knows the worst of it ? ” 

Thus it came to pass, to the great satisfaction of Jessie, that 
Sarah Fry and Abraham Bush were made one, and soon after- 
ward installed at Bed woods, where their kind, familiar faces 
made the large kitchen a home-like place, to which she often 
resorted for a pleasant chat, Abraham’s part of which con- 
sisted chiefly of a series of grunts, and which kept Jessie’s 
heart warm and human in her petrifying isolation. 


CHAPTEK VII. 


MARWELL COURT. 

Jessie was mistaken in her surmise that she was not again 
to see Miss Lonsdale, for the next morning the bright plume 
flashed above the low garden wall, the pretty ponies stopped 
at the wicket, and the sitting-room was again brightened by 
the lady’s presence. 

She came to see how the sketch was progressing, she wanted 
to take a hint from Miss Meade ; for, fond as she was of 
sketching from nature, she had never yet been very success- 
ful in it. She had ventured to bring a portfolio of water- 
colors and prints, also a book that Jessie might like, a lovely 
book, which opened a new world to Jessie, it was called “ The 
Seven Lamps of Architecture.” 

Before long Clara Lonsdale could not walk, or sketch, or 
read a new book without Jessie, and the days in which Jessie 
was not commanded to the Court were blanks to the lonely 
girl. The Plummers saw the growing intimacy with no con- 
cern, they held it an honor to Jessie and by reflection to 
themselves ; they considered her position too far beneath Miss 
Lonsdale’s for any thought of equality to enter the child’s 
head. 

At Marwell Court there was more concern on Jessie’s ac- 
count. Even Lady Gertrude was sufficiently interested to say 
that it was a pity, while Sir Arthur one day remonstrated with 
Clara. 

“It is a very pretty head,” he said, “and you might find 
something better to do than turn it for your amusement. 
I’ve half a mind to warn the Plummers.” 

So Clara immediately found something better to do. She 
took Jessie in to amuse the invalid girl, Ethel Medway, one 
day. Ethel at once took to a face so sweet and so near her 
own age, and Sir Arthur, over-glad to find any means of 
brightening his daughter’s sad life, said no more. 

Jessie left Miss Blushford’s at Easter when the Med ways 
were again at Marwell, and Clara was again interested in her 
new friend, with whom she had maintained a brisk corre- 
spondence in the interval, and with whose brief and unevent- 
ful history she was soon fully acquainted. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


84 

The news of the final capture of Lucknow by Sir Colin 
Campbell had been received, and though the great revolt 
was now virtually quelled, Philip still had sterner work than 
marrying cut out for him for months to come yet. In his let- 
ters he now only alluded to their union as a distant possibil- 
ity ; as to Jessie’s letters he seldom alluded to them at all. 
Many never reached him, those he did receive came out of 
their proper order and with such gaps and want of sequence 
that they were difficult to understand. On his part he had 
things of such deadly interest to relate during the prolonged 
sieges that he confined himself to the baldest statement of 
facts, and this he often repeated, knowing how many chances 
there were that his letters would never reach their destination. 
Thus the two young people were spiritually as well as physi- 
cally separated. 

The wearing, wasting pain of vainly waiting for the post, 
of fearing the postman’s knock and yet being blankly disap- 
pointed when he brings nothing to fill up the emptiness of 
the weary day, such, the frequent portion of women, who 
weep while men work, wait while they are absent, watch 
while they enjoy, was Jessie’s portion in her secluded isolation. 
She ate her heart out while watching for Indian letters, 
and when the rare, long-expected missive did arrive — and 
sometimes the same mail brought two — was always, after the 
first thankfulness that Philip was still alive and well, miserably 
disappointed and sat down to write her answer feeling that she 
might as well seek counsel and comprehension of a stone wall. 
Yet there was only Philip to speak to, and Miss Lonsdale, 
who read the child’s inmost heart as she read the last new 
novel, because it was something new and therefore interesting 
to a world-worn mind. 

In the genial spring weather they could sketch in the open 
air, and made appointments to meet at selected points of 
vantage, so that Clara might take hints and examples from 
Jessie’s greater skill and talent, she said, but really for the 
companionship. 

How happy Jessie was in this, to her, rare and cultivated 
companionship ! How charming, clever, and accomplished as 
well as kind and friendly the woman of the world appeared to 
the simple girl ! Her grace seemed beauty, her polish cour- 
tesy, her superficial cleverness and information genius and 
•learning, her tact heart-sympathy. Indian letters, Redwoods 
homespun, Miss Blushford’s fettering pettiness, her own idle 
aimless life ; all were forgotten with Clara. 

One lovely forenoon they met by a thick grove of old oaks 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


85 


descending a moderate slope to a fair-sized sheet of water, 
the banks of which, except that opposite the sketchers, rose 
steep, crowned with trees. From this level bank the rich 
sward, dotted by clumps of fine trees, rolled away up to the 
terrace in front of Marwell Court, the long and imposing front 
of which rose clear in the April sunlight and traced itself on 
a background of wooded upland. On one side of the fine 
pile a long vista of level landscape stretched away to some 
distant blue hills, on the other a hanging wood clothed a 
steep ascent, in the foreground some deer were grouped, as 
if for the express purpose of composing a picture ; over all was 
the sweet, deep, April sky of magical pale blue opalescence, 
from the mysterious depths of which clouds seemed to issue 
in vague soft outlines, which melted and mingled impercept- 
ibly into its far lavender-blue recesses. The first swallows 
of the year flashed dark against that lovely sky, white pigeons 
and blue flew with clanging wings beneath it, larks shot up in 
spires of eddying song and were lost in it, the fresh half- 
opened foliage of beech, elm* and larch, flushed translucent on 
the wood beneath it. The sunshine was tender and even 
fresher than the light soft airs stirring the budded woods ; 
one seemed to bathe in it, and gather renewed life and health 
from its pure radiance, it threw a glory over everything, 
steeping the turf and young leafage, and calling forth such 
warm and acute touches of color from tree-trunks, the red 
broken banks and the still lake through which a stream 
loitered slowly, as no pencil could reproduce. 

Kusset and gold leafage was just beginning to break forth 
here and there in the gray masses of oak tops over their 
heads. Looking back into the living roof you saw only sil- 
very mazes of thickly interwoven boughs, relieved by some 
burst of fresh leafage or some green under-growth. The pale 
net-work made a hoary gloom about the strong low arches of 
those stout gray pillars ; solemn, mysterious, and suggestive. 
All sorts of dreams rise and embody themselves in such dim 
woodland haze ; dryads, nymphs, and fauns spring to life ; 
fairies disport themselves about the mossy roots. And when 
the sunshine loses itself in those close-woven branches, or 
shoots through some aperture in the oaken roof, lighting up 
clusters of pale, sweet primroses, delicate lightly- swaying 
wind-flowers, beds of wood-violets, spires of early blue-bells 
piercing the moss and the red relics of last year’s leaves, the 
effect is truly magical. 

But if the oak coppice behind them spoke of hoary legend 
and gray antiquity, all that lay before their eyes breathed 


86 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


of youth and morning in its fresh and tender beauty. The 
still lake, of a deeper azure than the lavender-blue sky, re- 
flected the delicate tints of youngest green and gave back 
the pensive gaze of primroses, most youthful and maidenly 
of flowers, and mirrored the pale golden glory of blossoming 
sallows, already thronged with inebriate bees. Nests were hid- 
den down by the water where the sedge rustled drily, little dark 
moor-hens darted out with their wild, plaintive cry ; an emerald 
flash lighted on a sallow bough, its double in the water be- 
neath proclaiming it a kingfisher ; pigeons murmured content- 
edly, the little stream gurgled musically in its rocky descent to 
the lake, the spring-like fragrance of young leaves filled the air. 

Jessie, seeing and feeling all this fresh, live beauty as she 
stood by the easel near her worshipped friend, felt depths 
upon depths opening within her, whether of pain or joy 
she did not rightly know ; all was vague and undeveloped, like 
the blind stirrings of the spring in the world around ; last 
year’s nestlings cannot tell what wonders may happen as the 
spring days go by with fresh mjracles, so it is with young, 
unstirred hearts, ignorant of the advancing pageant of life. 

“ How beautiful, how very beautiful ! she murmured 
dreamily, as she gazed before her. 

“ Passable,” commented her companion, “ subdued scale of 
coloring.” 

“ And how pleasant to be with you, dear Miss Lonsdale,” 
continued Jessie. “ I think I never quite lived before. I shall 
never,” she added, “ be happier than I am to-day.” 

Clara looked at the young, sweet, rapt face with a mixture 
of envy and pity, scorn and tenderness, wonder and amuse- 
ment. “ Foolish child,” she said, caressingly ; “ how long is it 
since you wished to forget your own existence ? Come and 
sketch in these trees for me.” 

She smiled a glad assent and bent over the easel. She 
did not know that even now the shadow of advancing fate 
was falling upon her, stealing from the mysterious maze of 
oak-boughs in the heart of the wood, and that she would 
never again be the same fresh-liearted girl that flitted lightly 
over the daisied sward in that morning’s sunshine. She was 
only conscious of the blithe wood-notes warbling in the 
spring air, the crackling of boughs and dead leaves beneath 
a firm quick step, the sound of a mellow human voice, as the 
smoke of a cigar overpowered the wood-scents, and turning 
round, she looked straight into the face of a young and hand- 
some man whose eyes were alight with a fire such as she had 
never seen before and never could forget. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM . 


87 


Her gaze grew wide and brilliant as it met and mingled for 
one electric moment with the new-comer’s, then fell, and she 
turned again to her work. 

“Unearthed you at last, Clara,” the mellow’ voice was say- 
ing. 

“ Is that you, Claude ? ” Clara replied, without turning her 
head. “ I certainly pity you at this time of year in the coun- 
try with nothing to kill.” 

“Is time nothing?” he asked, rather reluctantly throwing 
his cigar away. 

“ Oh, smoke if you like,” Miss Lonsdale said ; “ no one 
here dislikes tobacco.” 

Which filled Jessie with surprise. 


CHAPTER YD!. 


THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 

“Are you sure?” asked the new-comer, turning to Jessie 
with the blank gaze of civil indifference, “ that you don’t 
mind my smoking ? ” 

He scarcely waited for an answer, letting himself down on 
one elbow on the grass in the immediate foreground, whence 
he could look up in Miss Lonsdale’s face, before he took out 
and lighted a fresh cigar. 

“Pray smoke, pray don’t hesitate,” Jessie stammered with 
a rising color. 

He turned with a sudden surprised look at her, and threw 
the cigar cleverly over his shoulder into the water, to the sur- 
prise and almost indignation of his cousin. 

“ What nonsense, Claude ! ” she exclaimed, “ when you 
have twice been told you may smoke. Why, Jessie,” she 
added, with asperity, “you must surely be thoroughly used to 
tobacco by this time. Don’t all your men smoke every 
evening ?” 

They certainly did, though that did not lessen Jessie’s dis- 
like of tobacco, but she made no reply, because Captain Med- 
way immediately said that it was a sin to spoil the primrose 
scents with smoke. “ Fact is, one smokes when one is alone 
from force of habit ; ” he added. “ I couldn’t find you, Clara, 
and instinctively turned to a weed for comfort, like the Goth I 
am.” 

Jessie’s color deepened to the deepest wild-rose tint, she 
bent over her painting in distressed embarrassment, hurt by 
Clara’s unwonted tone and of her own awkwardness in betray- 
ing her dislike, but grateful for a courtesy to which she was 
little accustomed, and which she therefore more keenly appre- 
ciated. This gratitude was not lost on Captain Medway, un- 
observant as he appeared in his languid posture on the grass, 
his whole attention claimed by Miss Lonsdale, with whom 
he was soon deep in a conversation that did not include 
Jessie. 

“This then,” she thought, with a thrill of enthusiasm, “ was 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


89 


Claude Medway, the hitherto unknown hero of so many 
martial adventures, the central figure of so many romantic 
speculations.” From the day when the handsome boy helped 
pull her out of the pond, he had occupied a large space in her 
imagination. Philip had depicted him under various aspects 
and in glowing colors, until his very name diffused an atmos- 
phere of chivalrous romance. Accustomed as she was to the 
dangers and vicissitudes of war through the medium of 
Philip, who was even now on most active service, the fact that 
this beautiful and princely looking man lying on the grass 
before her, and displaying a courtesy foreign to her experi- 
ence, had actually taken part in what is perhaps the most 
chivalrous if not most brilliant episode in modern war, made 
her heart beat with a glorious thrill. Philip had often been 
in great danger, he must often have performed a heroic deed ; 
but that famous charge had fired her imagination as no other 
incident could. Philip, who had actually seen as much of it 
as was possible to a soldier in the ranks on that field, and who 
had heard it described in detail and discussed by other eye- 
witnesses, and studied the whole battle scientifically afterward, 
had narrated it over and over again to her, not forgetting 
Medway’s special heroism in plunging back under hot fire 
to rescue a wounded man. She had only to close her eyes 
and the charge of the Six Hundred passed with vivid accu- 
racy before her, the knightly form of Claude, wearing the 
picturesque hussar uniform in which she had once seen him, 
being the central figure of the picture. 

Instead of looking at Marwell Court, towering stately in the 
sunshine beyond the deer in the foreground, she more than 
once diverted her gaze to the recumbent figure in the imme- 
diate foreground, a deep and reverent admiration expressed 
in every feature of her pure, sweet face. Thus innocent Jessie 
did inward homage to this brave soldier, not knowing that 
she was herself fated to begin a warfare infinitely more peril- 
ous- and requiring courage of an infinitely higher order. 
Perhaps it was some shadow of oncoming Fate that made her 
say, ten minutes before, that she would never again be so happy. 

So strongly impressed was she by this knightly figure, so 
deeply touched by the charm of the mellow voice, that she for- 
got herself and the incongruity of her own silent presence at 
this intimate conversation between the cousins, until some re- 
quest from Clara concerning her sketch woke her from her 
dreamy fantasy and recalled her to herself. Then she began to 
be ill at ease and to find herself in her own way ; she doubted if 
she ought to remain where she was so evidently superfluous. 


90 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


The cousins talked of people she did not know, and places 
she had never seen ; till some reference to Clara’s sketch set 
them upon art and artists. They spoke of famous pictures, 
talked of Italy, of “ Modern Painters,” of the pre-Baphaelite 
brotherhood, skimmed recent literature, drifted on to the 
mutiny and Lucknow, glanced thence to lighter themes, 
operas, theatres, declined finally to social celebrities, gossip. 
Their conversation opened a new and interesting world to 
Jessie, who had never listened to cultured talk before. She 
did not know that much they said was commonplace, much 
second hand, little original and nothing profound ; she had 
not enough social experience to question the good-breeding 
of totally ignoring her presence, though it revolted her fine 
instincts and made her wretchedly uncomfortable ; but she 
listened with absorbed interest and could have listened 
longer. 

Claude’s Medway’s appearance had illuminated Clara’s face 
and changed her whole bearing ; she became animated, smil- 
ing, gracious. To Jessie’s admiring gaze she was really beau- 
tiful under this inspiring influence. Was it strange that she 
should totally forget her dearest Jessie in the presence of this 
fascinating man, the simple child wondered ? and then it sud- 
denly struck sharply through her how well matched the two 
were, and how absorbed in each other. ' A strange feeling 
frightened the muscles of her throat. Was she sorry ? Surely 
not. 

“ Well, Claude,” said Clara, when the painting materials had 
been gathered together and the sketchers had gone their sev- 
eral ways, “ what do you think of my little friend ? Could you 
imagine anything so dainty in these Boeotian wastes ? ” 

“ Little ? I thought her a fair-sized girl,” he returned, in- 
differently. “So this is the newest pet, Clara, eh? Some 
village girl, some female genius you have unearthed ? ” 

“But isn’t she pretty, now, and charming and refined?” 
she persisted. 

“ I dare say she is well enough,” he returned, “ but I never 
cared much for that blonde, pink and white innocence. Bad 
taste ? Well, you know, men are supposed to have bad taste 
in these matters.” 

“Fair or dark, she has distinction and beauty such as 
would be remarkable in any rank,” continued Clara ; ‘‘this is 
no mere pretty girl whose ‘ beaute du diable ’ will fade in a 
few years. Then her manner, her accent, her refinement of 
thought ” 

“ Say a paragon at once, Clara. You see I have not your 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


91 


opportunity of studying the young person’s character. And 
men are not expected to gush.” 

“ Gush ! Beally, Claude, you are quite rude. That odious 
affectation of admiring nothing, constantly puts you out of 
sympathy with other people. One is perpetually jarred by 
want of appreciation, one is tempted to exclude you altogether 
from one’s interests.” 

“ Now, my dear Clara,” he replied, observant of a tearful 
quiver of the usually proud lip, “this is cruelly unjust. 
Don’t I try to share your enthusiasms ? Didn’t I admire the 
Persian cat ? Didn’t I stick to the crippled tailor with a 
genius for metaphysics long after you had forgotten him ? ” 

“ Forgotten ? You know how ungratefully he behaved.” 

“ Then the poetess, Eliza ” 

“ It is not kind of you to name that treacherous woman.” 

“ I must say you have frightful luck with your proteges. 
But that makes it awfully hard lines on a fellow, a plain and 
practical chap like me, to be expected to begin a fresh 
schwdrmerei once a month, especially at second hand.” 

“I wonder that you see any point in a sarcasm so banal, 
so very second-hand, Claude. Jest as you will, this sweet 
child and her innocent affection make a deep and lasting- 
interest in my life.” 

“Well, Clara, you weren’t over civil to your friend. I 
thought she must be a sort of maid from the way in which 
you ignored her.” 

“ Oh ! a girl in her position ! There was no alternative. 
I must have sent you off if I had not ignored her.” 

“ I bow to superior wisdom. Thank goodness there’s the 
luncheon bell. Arcadian bliss makes one so hungry.” 

Marwell Court was not sketched in one day. Many trysts 
were made at that pleasant spot between the oaks and the 
water, and it became usual for Claude Medway to be in 
attendance on his cousin, carrying her easel and camp-stool, 
and criticising and watching the progress of the painting. 

One morning, while that lovely spring weather lasted, Jessie 
repaired to the appointed spot a little before the appointed 
hour, and setting up her easel and getting out her color- 
tubes, began to compare her sketch with the prospect before 
her, looking at it from this point and that with an artist’s dis- 
satisfaction. At last, laying her palette aside in disgust, she 
seated herself on her camp-stool beneath an oak and gave 
herself up to a silent absorption of the pure and harmonious 
coloring of the April day. 

Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders and hung graces 


92 IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 

fully about her, enhancing the slender grace of her figure, 
the lovely lines of which were well shown by the simple close- 
fitting black gown she wore, her small, neat bonnet set off the 
glory of her hair, sunbeams trembling through the budding 
oak-boughs played softly over the slim, white hands loosely 
clasped in her lap, her pensive face, so delicate in coloring 
and feature, and her bright rich hair. The gnarled branches 
and sturdy gray trunk of the oak made a good setting for 
this tender beauty, the primroses clustering at her feet were 
in harmony with her, and the bunch of delicate anemones, 
the sole ornament she wore, akin to her. 

Of what was Jessie dreaming, in that rapt, thoughtful 
posture, her deep eyes shadowed by the long, dark lashes 
which made such a contrast to her fair hair and rose-leaf 
complexion ? Did the clear eyes see more than the fair pros- 
pect spread before her in the April lights ? What would she 
have thought had she been conscious of the keen, intent gaze 
even now bent upon her from the thick covert of the dim 
silvery oak coppice ? Oh ! the charm of the mystery and the 
mystery of the charm to that intent gazer! “After* all,” he 
thought,- “ she is but a woman, simple, untutored, ignorant of 
the world, and ah ! how innocent ! And Gretchen was inno- 
cent,” he added, and smiled. That smile was to his face as 
the appearance of a snake in some paradise of fresh herbage 
and bright flowers ; it made him unconsciously avert his gaze 
from the pensive young face on which no one could look 
while thus smiling. 

Then he pushed through the brushwood, the crackling of 
which broke into Jessie’s dream and made her turn to see 
the handsome face beneath the soft felt hat which had now 
become so familiar to her. 

“Good-morning,” he said, with an air of faint surprise at 
meeting her. “ Sketching again, Miss Meade ? How very 
industrious you are.” 

“ I fear not,” she replied, in her literal simplicity. “ It is 
such a slow business, a morning’s work seems nothing.” 

He went to the easel and stood for some time discussing 
and commending the picture, while the pale rose deepened in 
Jessie’s face and her eyes kindled. “Your atmosphere is so 
good,” he said. “ I envy you your facility. We’ve all tried our 
hands on the dear old pla<5e, my brothers and sisters as well 
as Miss Lonsdale. It defies us all. Redwoods was another 
good subject for a sketch,” he suggested; “wasn’t it to be 
Jessie’s home? Was not his friend, Captain Randal of the 
190th, some connection of hers? Her adopted brother? 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


93 


Then she must be the little girl he once helped pull out of 
the mill-pond. Did she really remember it ? He was highly 
honored, indeed.” 

So they chatted, Jessie never reflecting that his manner, 
which had hitherto been one of civil indifference, had now 
changed to a mingled deference and friendliness. She was 
quite unconscious of a charm that as yet no one had discov- 
ered in her, consisting of a certain guileless transparency of 
diction and thought that made her speech flow like some 
pure, cool stream, limpid, refreshing, only the more musical 
for some slight interruption ; an innate, uncomprehended de- 
sire for self-expression giving her a childlike unreserve that 
was most pathetic. 

“ You must be very lonely,” he said, abruptly, looking 
thoughtfully down on her from his higher elevation as he 
leant against an oak- trunk. 

Jessie’s lip quivered and her eyes filled ; she turned and 
looked away over the shining prospect, the blue water and 
green woodland, eloquently silent. 

“Poor child,” he added, in a low, full voice, rich to her ear 
with the manifold music of repressed feeling. From his posi- 
tion he could see, unnoticed himself, the changing, struggling 
emotions passing over her face like cloud shadows over wood- 
land and sea. Both features and color were subtly responsive 
to the slightest feeling ; it was a deeply interesting study, 
fraught with a fresh and stimulating charm even to one 
versed in the study of women’s faces. 

After a while Jessie swallowed something down with an 
effort and turned her head slightly. “ Oh, it is only for a 
time,” she said, cheerfully. “India will soon be quiet, and 
then I shall go out to Philip.” 

“ To Randal ? ” he exclaimed. “ But he is not really your 
brother? ” he added. 

“Oh, no,” she replied, with her accustomed simplicity, 
“ but we are engaged.” 

“Engaged ! brother and sister! ” he cried in tones of sur- 
prise. “Pardon me,” he added, “I — ah! the relationship is 
unusual and confusing, that’s all.” 

A sudden, complicated pain dyed Jessie’s face with crim- 
son, which quickly gave place to deathly paleness. She said 
nothing, but the situation was reyealed to her in a flash. 
Philip was her brother, though not of her blood. 

“Randal is a lucky fellow all round,” he added, with a 
change of voice. “ What would most of us give to be in his 
place at Lucknow ? He gets all the innings.” 


94 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“But you had your innings at Balaclava,” she replied, 
quickly. “ One of the Six Hundred ! ” 

The tone in which she spoke contained the sum and quin- 
tessence of all that ever had been or could be expressed to 
the honor of the Six Hundred. Medway’s cheek flushed, 
he was carried out of himself, and before long was answering 
Jessie’s eager questions touching that famous charge like 
any boy. Did he think when they charged that any of 
them would return ? Was he sorry when the order was re- 
ceived ? 

“ Sorry ? Oh, Miss Meade, soldiers can never be sorry in 
an engagement. Why, the first burst when the hounds give 
tongue is nothing to it. The very sounds, the firing, the noise 
of hoofs, the rattle of steel and iron stir one up and make 
one feel all alive ; nothing like a sharp action to steady the 
nerves. Of course I thought I was in for it. You don’t know 
what a lot one thinks in a minute at such times. I saw the 
old place there, with sunshine on it like now, and thought — 
well, Marwell will be Hugh’s, so much the better for the old 
fellow, and wondered if my people would care — especially my 
sister — you know how she is afflicted, poor child. And I — 
well, I wished I had been a better fellow. And, do you know, 
it was a queer feeling that we should never know what they 
said of it in England. Then one couldn’t help feeling glad 
of getting such an innings, and making such a finish. And, 
by Jove, Miss Meade, you must really practice witchcraft, you 
turn a fellow inside out ! One never talks of these things, 
you know,” he concluded. 

“ That is unkind,” said Jessie, “ when people are dying to 
know, and have so much pleasure in hearing.” 

“ One would do a great deal to please some people.” 

Jessie could not see the look that accompanied this, but the 
voice was almost as expressive as one full-charged glance. 
She trembled, she knew not why. 

“ Women can only hear things, they may never do them,” 
she said, sighingly. 

“ That hearing would make it worth while to do anything. 

“ ‘ How sweet are looks that ladies bend, 

On whom their favors fall,’ ” 


he quoted with the same low-voiced fervor. 

“ ‘ For them I battle to the end, 

To save from shame and thrall,* ’* 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 95 

added Jessie, with deep feeling. “Ah! Sir Galahads are not 
needed in these happier days, except in spirit, are they ? ” 

He shrank from the innocent gaze of the blue eves up- 
lifted to his as if it had stung him ; he turned away and took 
a careful aim with his stick at a white butterfly hovering 
about a bush. Neither of them perceived the deep signifi- 
cance of the action, or remembered that the butterfly symbol- 
izes the soul, but Jessie was strangely jarred and she was 
glad when the winged creature fluttered lightly away unhurt 
into azure freedom. 

“ Yet it must be so hard to die and leave this lovely, 
lovely world,” she added, “ even for God and the right, Eng- 
land’s motto, to ride like that, straight to death, to fall into 
darkness and wake, where ? Brave men might well tremble 
before the hereafter. Were you so sure of heaven, Captain 
Medway ? ” 

He looked at her with dilating eyes, for the moment tak- 
ing the sarcasm as intentional. 

“ Oh !” he returned in atone of relief, “I never thought 
much of those things, you know. Men don’t, at least men 
of the world. Of course, one had a sort of a feeling that one 
couldn’t expect to go to the good place ; but funking was no 
good. ‘ Take your licking and don’t squeal,’ we used to say 
at Eton. Besides, many better fellows had to go there, for 
we were all in for it together.” 

“I don’t think,” continued Jessie with sudden warmth, 
“that I should care to go to a heaven you were shut out 
of. I mean,” she added with glowing confusion in her swiftly 
flushing face, “ a man who did that — turned back, wounded, 
bleeding, weak, into that fire to save another more helpless 
than himself. That is real religion — saving others.” 

At these burning words a deep emotion seized the young- 
man, or rather a tumult of mingled emotions ; his heart beat 
with deep and strong pulsations, his eyes fell, he looked at the 
flower-sprinkled grass at his feet, silent, though the word 
“ darling ” formed itself with inaudible intensity on his lips. 
He raised his eyes, glanced once at Jessie with a look that 
caressed her from head to foot, then looked down again. 
Jessie’s heart beat too, with fiery rapidity, her confused gaze 
also sought the ground, she was troubled, wondering into 
what quicksand her enthusiasm had betrayed her, wonder- 
ing, but scarcely fearing ; she possessed the amazing audacity 
of perfect innocence, besides she trusted the living em- 
bodiment of chivalry at her side as she would have trusted 
the warrior archangel himself, the beautiful young Michael 


96 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


with his burning suit of bright armor. The moment was 
impressive, the silence seemed to quiver with intensity. 

“I am afraid,” faltered Jessie at last, “that my tongue runs 
away with me. I don’t often talk to people.” 

“ So much the worse for people,” he returned, drawing in 
his breath with an air of relief, while Jessie bent forward 
and made some most unlucky additions to her picture. “ Do 
you know, Miss Meade, it is very refreshing to talk to a lady 
who has not been spoilt by the world.” 

He left his station by the oak-trunk and came forward, 
insensibly changing his position in the endeavor to change 
the current of his thoughts, and pressing the flowers beneath 
his step he strolled forward and let himself down, as of old, 
full length on the grass, in front of her, reclining on one 
arm and looking up and facing her while he made some triv- 
ial observation. 

But Jessie did not heed what he was saying, her eyes 
dilated with sudden terror, her cheek paled. “Don’t move,” 
she cried, “don’t stir an inch,” and as she spoke, she darted 
toward him, snatched something from the grass, and hurled 
it away. 

Quite close to the spot on which he reclined she had seen 
a thing like the long, brown, leather lash of a cart- whip 
stretched on the turf, and when his arm touched the ground 
the thick end of the lash suddenly erected itself, showing a 
long, flat head with two small, glittering eyes, and a forked 
tongue darting itself viciously at his unprotected face, which 
it would have struck in another instant. He sprang to his 
feet, saw what had happened, caught the thing a blow on the 
head with his stick, and then flung the limp dead body into 
the water. 

“ A viper, and a large one. Thank you,” he said, turning 
tranquilly again to Jessie, who was sitting with her face hid 
in her hands, sobbing bitterly. 


CHAPTER IX. 


ENGAGED. 

In a moment Claude was kneeling by her side, half-sur- 
rounding her with his arm, scarcely knowing what he did, 
for he was one of those men who are wax to a woman’s tears. 
“Jessie, Jessie ! Are you hurt? Heavens! Did the beast bite 
you ? ” lie added, taking and examining her ungloved hands, 
and remembering that they had grasped the viper’s head. 

“ Your face ! ” she sobbed. “ It almost ” 

“But it didn’t, thanks to you ! How you tremble. Look 
up, dear Jessie, look up — I am all right.” 

Jessie continued to tremble, though she recovered herself 
sufficiently to withdraw her hands from the kisses pressed 
upon them — kisses she was too agitated to heed — kisses more 
dangerous than adders’ bites. Afterwards she was vaguely 
conscious that her hands had been kissed, but she never re- 
membered what actually passed. 

“Come, Jessie, look up, what is there to cry about?” he 
said, releasing her hands, “ the beast is stone dead.” 

“It — was so — slippery,” she said, childishly,” “I — I was so 
frightened.” 

She possessed the rare art of crying gracefully, her flushed 
face only looked sweeter through tears, her features kept 
their dainty curves, her eyes were all the brighter, like forget- 
me-nots in the dew, her eyelids did not redden, the quiver of 
her lips went straight to people’s hearts. Some of her golden 
hair had fallen about her neck and glittered in the sunshine ; 
he could not help touching it lightly, caressingly, unseen. 

“ Did you think it would kill me ? ” he asked with quiet 
gravity, as they each recovered from their dissimilar agita- 
tion. “ Then it might have killed you ? and you don’t like 
slippery things,” he added, with a tender smile. 

“ I don’t like snakes. They make me ill. A snake,” she 
added, now calm and ashamed of her agitation, “is the symbol 
of sin. Even to be near a sin is like touching a cold snake.” 

He turned away, a heavy frown disguising the beauty of 
his face. 

Jessie now began to express some wonder at Miss Lons- 
dale’s delay, and looking at her watch, found to her intense 
surprise that the morning was gone, it was time to go home 
to dinner. 

7 


98 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ By the way, I quite forgot the note,” Captain Medway said, 
forgetting also that he had been surprised to meet Jessie, and 
handing her a little cocked-hat of Clara’s inditing, which 
briefly told her that she was not able to keep her tryst that 
morning. Jessie did not wonder at the lady’s choice of a 
messenger, her simplicity was too absolute ; and he did not 
think it necessary to explain that he had intercepted the note 
on its way to her by the hands of a servant. She wished him 
good-morning, and taking her easel and painting things, van- 
ished in the depths of the wood. He remained leaning against 
a tree with folded arms, gazing at the spot left vacant by her ! 

“ She is too good ! ” he reflected. “ This is no mere milk 
and water innocence, half ignorance, half want of temptation, 
no light, slight village beauty. It is sterling. A new type of 
woman. And I am not to be shut out of her heaven ! But 
she is a woman, after all — and women are — women — My 
cousin Clara — Inn ! I have her authority. My mother — well ! 
my mother ought to know, but she does not think highly 
of the sex. Everybody, man or woman, especially woman, has 
his price, according to Lady Gertrude. That Balaclava busi- 
ness! by Jove? who wouldn’t have bragged? — The viper! — 
sweet child ! She could face death, but cried at the slipperiness ! 
Engaged, and to Philip ? — is Philip mad, or what ? — ” He un- 
folded his arms and took a turn beneath the dappled shadows. 
“ I wish I had never seen her ! ” he sighed, “I wish to Heaven 
I had never seen her ! ” he repeated. 

Luncheon was in full progress when he reached the Court, 
cheerful and good-tempered as usual. 

“Been sketching this morning, Clara?” he asked his cousin. 
“ No ? Is the picture finished, then ? ” Clara did not reply ; 
she was angry with him for not making himself acquainted 
with her movements earlier, in which case he could have 
driven to Cleeve with her. Being Sir Arthur’s ward, and 
having from early childhood passed half the year with him, 
Clara had naturally fallen into fraternal relations with her 
cousin. This was all very well in one’s teens, but a woman 
of four and-twenty, possessing large property, expects more 
deference. So Miss Lonsdale told her cousin later, when ex- 
plaining the cause of her anger to him. But Claude knew 
the true cause far too well. 

“If you have nothing to do this afternoon, Claude,” Sir 
Arthur said, “do try to amuse poor little Ethie : she is fright- 
fully low to-day.” 

“ I was thinking I might wheel her out in the sun, perhaps, 
this bright day,” he replied readily. And he passed the long 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


99 


afternoon by the side of the fretful little cripple, who re- 
warded her brother’s patience by pouts and reproaches, but 
would not let him go. 

“I really wonder,” Lady Gertrude said, “that Claude bears 
with Ethel as he does. The truth is, he spoils her. She is 
more peevish than ever after he has been with us.” 

“Claude feels for the child; he is certainly kind,” Sir 
Arthur returned. “ But it would be hard indeed if a strong 
man, who never had an ache in his life, lost his patience with 
a sick girl.” 

“ My dear uncle, it is precisely those strong men knowing 
nothing of pain who are most impatient of other people’s suf- 
fering,” Clara interposed; “Hugh would never devote an 
afternoon to Ethel ; he says that she gives him the blues.” 

“Or Jim,” his mother added; “as Jim says, he wouldn’t 
so much mind amusing her if she would be amused, but she 
is so ungrateful.” 

“Poor child ! poor dear child !” moaned her father, think- 
ing how different a lot he had expected for his only daughter 
in her spring-tide of womanhood. 

“And Claude know r s what it is to suffer, Aunt Gertrude,” 
added Clara ; “ think of the Balaclava wound, and the winter 
cold, and starvation. Remember the story of the goose he 
and young Randal stole together in the Crimea.” 

“To be sure! the goose !” laughed Sir Arthur ; “Claude 
and Randal stole the goose and hid it, and another man asked 
them to dine upon it-, his servant having seen and snatched it. 
The villain made a merit of feasting them on their own goose.” 

Jessie sped breathlessly homeward, shocked at the lateness 
of the hour ; but when she reached Redwoods, where a pun- 
gent fragran6e of wood-smoke and bacon made all healthily 
hungry people still more hungry by anticipation, was relieved 
to find that her delay was unnoticed, dinner not being yet on 
the table. 

One glance round the room was sufficient to show to her 
practised eye that tempest was lowering upon the domestic 
horizon. Cousin Jane w T as laying the cloth with her own 
hands, a wholly unnecessary thing pointing to storm on the ' 
Redwoods barometer. “ To be sure, anybody can but be 
wore out,” she was saying mournfully, when Jessie came in 
with the soft freshness of a spring breeze, “and the sooner the 
better in a world like this. I don’t know as there’s anybody 
to care when I’m gone — without ’ts the funeral expenses,” 
she added, showering the knives and forks with a clatter upon 
the table, 


100 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Jessie knew better than to make any remark or offer to help ; 
she looked inquiringly at Mr. Plummer, who stood in the 
English householder’s commanding position on the hearth- 
rug, trying to appear at his ease. Beauty was not Mr. Plum- 
mer’s strong point, his complexion, -with the sun and storm, 
the frost and fog of sixty years, together with the hearty 
meals and festive glasses incidental to the ploughing and reap- 
ing and riding and shooting of that long period, was of a deep 
rich plum color, his face was angular and beardless, his mouth 
a straight line at right angles to his nose. His small, gray- 
. blue eyes were rather deep-set and overhung by tufted sanely 
eyebrows ; they reminded Jessie of bright little leaded cot- 
tage windows beneath thatched eaves ; his sandy hair, per- 
fectly straight, parted on one side, brushed smooth on the 
top and brushed out at the ends, was strikingly like a thatched 
roof ; the whole face, homely in feature, genial and kindly in 
expression, had exactly the physiognomy of a cosy thatched 
red brick cottage. This face surmounting a burly form and 
wearing an air of ill-feigned indifference covering decided per- 
turbation, with the straight line of his mouth screwed into an 
incipient whistle, was droll enough to Jessie’s mind ; but when 
Mr. Plummer, wishing still to appear at his ease and yet to 
convey to Jessie a hint of what was going on, tried to twist 
one eye slowly into a solemn wink, it was too droll, and a 
slight titter escaped her. 

“Seeing anybody’s own flesh and blood wore out may be 
amusing to some,” continued Cousin Jane, severely, “but ’t 
isn’t what I expected of poor Martha’s own child.” 

“I was thinking of something funny,” Jessie hastily ex- 
plained. 

“ I am sure I wonder at you, Jessie,” Mrs. Plummer la- 
mented, placing the mustard on the table with an air of resig- 
nation, “ and I wonder your poor mother don’t turn in her 
grave to hear you. I don’t expect much from them that isn’t 
Woods. And to be sure, Wood as you are, poor Matthew 
reared you up as I always said he’d live to repent. Men folks 
may laugh and whistle while their married wives are drove 
into their graves, it’s only what anybody’s used to, but I did 
think better of Wood blood, that I did.” 

“ I beg your pardon, cousin,” Jessie said, meekly. 

“And you may be thankful if you don’t live to beg your 
bread, miss, brought up as you was. I suppose, Plummer, if 
I was to ask you to sharpen the knives on my bended knees 
you wouldn’t do it,” she added, mournfully. 

“Well, there, my dear, I don’t know but I might sharpen 


IA r THE HEART OF THE STORM. 101 

them better on your tongue,” he replied, goaded for once to a 
retort. 

“ Some thinks it fine to jeer at married wives,” said Mrs. 
Plummer, but her words were drowned in the brisk obligato 
Mr. Plummer executed with knife and steel. 

‘ ‘ Ho, ho, lio, her nose doth show, 

How oft to the cupboard doth Margery go,” 

he sang with reckless joviality, to the accompaniment of the 
steel on the knives, casting a half desperate, half deprecating- 
wink toward Jessie at the same time. Cousin Jane sank in a 
chair and put her hands to her ears. “ There’s no knowing 
when I may drop,” she said, when the steel music died away, 
“our family always goes off sudden.” 

“You can’t drop fur in that chair, mother,” retorted Mr. 
Plummer, dryly. 

“ Not but what I’d as soon be took off' as not,” she contin- 
ued, not heeding this interruption, which alarmed Jessie, ac- 
customed as she was to a masterly passivity in domestic broils 
on the part of Mr. Plummer ; “I never was one to run up a 
doctor’s bill if I could help it. And as for a funeral, I 
shouldn’t wish to put people out ; walking would do for me. 
It wouldn’t be hardly worth while to hev mourning coaches 
just for Plummer and Toger. They could walk. I dare say 
their feelings would be equal to it. There’s isn’t anybody 
else to follow, without it’s Eliza’s husband. And I shouldn’t 
like to put him to the expense and trouble with the hay season 
coming on and Eliza going upstairs. I suppose you can eat 
cold pie, Jessie ? ” she added, taking the head of the now cov- 
ered table with melancholy resignation, “taffety as you’ve 
been bred ; for what we’re going to receive may the Lord 
make us truly thankful. ’Twould have been hotted up if I’d 
had a husband a respectable woman might look to, her with 
money of her own and a family looked up to.” 

“ Thank ye, Jane, I don’t care if I do have a cut of that 
ham,” said Mr. Plummer, as if in response to an invitation, 
after handing Jessie her plate of pie. 

“ You mayn’t have the chance long,” she sighed, beginning 
to carve ; “for I will say this, there ain’t a many can match my 
hams. Not that I was ever one to boast. The many hams 
I’ve cured, and no thanks. It’s in Wood blood.” 

“ There ain’t a many can match your tongue,” added Mr. 
Plummer hastily, bending his jovial face over his foam-topped 
mug of ale, and receiving a hearty kick under the. table from 


102 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM . 


Eoger, who bad just pounded into the room, all blowsed and 
ruddy from the thorough scrubbing that always preceded his 
dinner. “You was always good at tongue/' he added, evidently 
reckless of consequences and altogether demoralized and 
defiant. 

“ But what,” continued Cousin Jane, fortunately missing the 
innuendo and mollified by the compliment, “ is the best-cured 
tongue in a world like this ? ” 

Another contraction of Mr. Plummer’s features here nearly 
produced another titter from Jessie, whom these amenities 
sometimes made hysterical ; but Cousin Jane went on with 
placid plaintiveness, “ Roger, my dear, do try some more pie. 
Keep yourself up, for you may need it ; there’s no knowing 
when trouble may come. We may all be gone by this time 
to-morrow.” 

Roger manfully responded to this appeal by finishing the 
beefsteak pie in his most heroic fashion, entreating his mother 
between whiles to “ pick a bit ” herself, which she steadily 
declined to do. 

“ Only last night I dreamt of bride-cake,” she sighed, “and 
the feelings I have in my inside nobody knows. But I ain’t 
one to complain.” 

“ Jessie,” said Mr. Plummer, when Cousin Jane had left the 
room wafted by her own sighs, “ don’t you ever give Philip 
the tongue-pie for dinner, my dear ; ” and she crimsoned with 
inexplicable pain at this indirect allusion to her engagement. 
“The Lord only knows,” he continued, “how I came to for- 
get to say I’d asked four or five to drop into tea and supper 
to-night till this morning ; entirely forgot.” 

“Well, Cousin- Plummer, you deserved a scolding,” Jessie 
replied, laughing. “I don’t know what I shouldn’t do to you 
if I were Cousin Jane.” 

“ She’ll be all right,” he averred, cheerfully, “ now she’v giv 
out we may all be gone by this time to-morrow.” Then 
Jessie went to offer her services in the complicated prepara- 
tions that she knew must be made for the reception of 
guests, services that after many gibes at her fine breeding and 
general incompetence, were finally grumblingly accepted. 

She was glad to escape her own thoughts in this household 
bustle, and put on an apron and tucked up her sleeves, and 
found her shaken nerves and feverish heart-beats calmed and 
quieted, especially when she went into the clean, cool, fresh 
dairy to skim the milk. Dairy-work always went to Jessie’s 
heart, it recalled her mother, whose butter and cheese making 
she had so often watched and admired. She liked the 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


103 


absolute cleanliness and dainty scrupulosity necessary to 
dairy work. Wliy had she not been brought up to these 
things ? She sighed, as the thick yellow cream wrinkled up 
in rich leathery folds over her skimmer ; had her mother really 
destined her for Philip and for that reason wished her to live 
differently ? Philip had always been considered a born gen- 
tleman, she did not know why ; she had heard of his pro- 
posed adoption by the Med ways. Was he connected with that 
family ? If so, why was the connection ignored ? How could 
she ever marry Philip, the brother Ippie of childhood ? No 
wonder Captain Medway was startled at hearing it. Then 
she paused, having emptied the skimmer daintily into the 
wooden bowl she held in her left hand, and fell into a train of 
reverie, her cheeks flushing and her heart throbbing, as the 
morning’s history repeated itself and she thought of looks 
and tones that could never be forgotten. Oh ! that Miss 
Lonsdale had never known her ! that she had never seen any- 
one at Marwell Court ! And yet — and yet ! She turned to 
the milk-pans again, drawing her fore-finger daintly round 
the inside of the pan she had just skimmed so as to remove 
the ring of cream adhering to it, remembering her mother’s 
instructions on the subject. Thriftless dairy-maids left the 
ring on the pan, careless ones forgot to wash and cool the 
fore-finger, untidy ones used the whole hand and so messed 
the cream over the handle of the skimmer ; a whole code of 
ethics seemed to be involved in skimming milk. And she had 
no mother to teach her the ethics of more important things. 
“ Oh ! mother, come back, eome back, to your child. For 
one little hour ! ” 

The skimmer and bowl had to be set down more than once 
because of the tears, but all the pans were skimmed at last, 
the milk poured from them, and fresh, well-scrubbed ones set 
in their place ready for the afternoon’s milk, that Abraham 
brought in in foaming pails suspended from a yoke on his 
shoulders. 

“It do seem natural to zee Miss in dairy ! ” he said, when 
he clattered in over the wet flags, and Jessie’s mind and heart 
were in a much calmer and healthier condition when all was 
done, the waiting and watching Sebastopol regaled with a 
saucer of milk, and she went out to the orchard with a plate 
of curds and new cheese-parings to give the young chickens, 
cheeping and fluttering there about their imprisoned anxious 
mothers, each in her coop with her head thrust between the 
bars. If Mrs. Plummer would but let her do these things 
regularly ! 


104 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ To be sure Jessie’s arnamental if she ain’t useful when 
there’s company,” Mrs. Plummer confided that evening to 
one of her guests. “ Goodness knows her father hev spent 
money enough on learning her music, and she’ s a fairish 
singer.” 

Jessie was at the piano singing in a fresh and artless voice, 

“ Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain, 

And sweet is death that puts an end to pain.” 

“ So it’s to be a match,” she heard one lady say, when her 
song was over and the accompaniment was lingering itself 
out beneath her fingers. 

“ Well ! to be sure they’ve been off and on again this two 
years past ; the captain he likes his pleasure, as is natural to 
a young man, but he’ll hev to settle down and marry some- 
when, and Miss Lonsdale isn’t so young as she was. Their 
property joins too, the Suffolk property that is. And so they 
say they’re engaged at last.” 

The color rushed into Jessie’s face and she heard a hoarse 
murmur like the sea in her ears. All the evening a voice 
seemed to be saying over and over again, “Engaged! en- 
gaged!” 


PART II. 


“ And there is no knight living that ought to give unto God so great 
thanks as ye ; for he hath given unto you beauty, seemliness, and great 
strength above all other knights, and therefore ye are more beholding 
unto God than any other man for to love Him.” — Sir T. Malory. 


CHAPTER I. 

LUCKNOW. 

The 25th September, 1857, is a day that Englishmen will 
not forget. For eighty-eight days the heroic little English 
garrison of Lucknow had defended their position against a 
leaguer of overwhelming numbers, having arms, provisions, 
a strong position in their native land, and all the resources 
of military training and skill ; they had maintained their 
frail, unfortified, unsheltered position with a courage and 
constancy rarely equalled, though perhaps surpassed by the 
heroic defence of Cawnpore ; and even that of Arah. 

Cawnpore was more heroic, because conducted under still 
more desperate and, as it proved, fatal, conditions, behind 
even frailer intrenchments than those of Lucknow. For at 
Cawnpore the women had no roof but the sky, under incessant 
fire, and no couch but the bare earth ; the garrison were only 
upheld by the noble hope of saving Lucknow by their pro- 
longed resistance. 

Stimulated, paradoxically as it may appear, equally by 
hope and despair — hope of being relieved by a force they 
knew to be in the neighborhood, despair of meeting more 
mercy at the hands of their enemies, should they yield, than 
the tragedy of Seetapore led them to expect ; for an ominous 
silence was the sole intimation they had ever had of the fate 
of Cawnpore ; the defenders of Lucknow rose on the 25th, to 
go through one more day of terrible, tragic monotony, and 
saw the sun once more turn westward over their wearied 
force diminished now by one-third, while the awful iron tern- 


106 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


pest still crashed mercilessly upon their riddled and half- 
ruined buildings, and filled every open spot with dust. 

Night and day those devoted men had fought and toiled in 
their unsheltered intrenchinents, scorched by the fierce sum- 
mer sun of India, drenched by its tropical rains ; they buried 
their daily tale of dead, they nursed their sick and wounded, 
they did all the offices of daily life under an incessant fire of 
musketry, shot, and shell, varied by stink-pots and carcases, 
and only slackening a while from time to time to be renewed 
with fiercer rigor. The sick, crowded on the lowest floor of 
the hospital, were not secure from the occasional round shots ; 
the only really safe places were damp, dark cellars, in which 
some of the ladies and children were crowded day and night 
among rats and mice, and where children rapidly sickened and 
died, and other children were born. All the long, hot day, 
officers and men, more or less weakened by fever and dysen- 
tery, and covered with boils, fought, rushing from battery to 
battery, because they were too few to man all at once ; and 
at night the exhausted combatants, officers and men without 
distinction, save that officers worked the hardest, toiled at 
burying the untended and famished beasts, the carcases of 
which bred pestilence. They could not furnish fatigue parties 
strong enough to repair breaches and make countermines ; 
they had to grind their own corn by hand ; they had not 
strength to bury their uncoffined dead deep enough to 
quench the foulness of decomposition ; the native followers 
and servants had deserted ; ladies, unaccustomed to stir a fin- 
ger in that enervating climate, had to perform the most me- 
nial offices at the most trying season, on bad and scanty food, 
and in crowded, unwholesome dens ; all to the never-ceasing 
thunder of cannon and rattle of musketry. It was then that 
Englishwomen, seeing their husbands slain and their help- 
less children sicken and die before them, sharing the men’s 
hardships, tending the sick, and braving the tempest of death, 
showed that they too came of heroic strain and knew how to 
endure. 

Perhaps the most striking characteristic of the wasted gar- 
rison manning those battered defences was their excessive 
weariness, for, except at Arah and Cawnpore, never did fight- 
ing men have to toil like these foreigners, the meanest of 
whom had hitherto been accustomed to be tended like princes 
by the subject race now besieging them. 

The sun still lay bright upon the gilded domes and grace- 
ful minarets springing from the rich foliage of the beautiful 
city, when the monotony of the stern siege music was broken 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


107 


by continuous firing from the direction of Cawnpore ; it grew 
ever nearer and louder, till the hearts of the brave and weary 
garrison were thrilled to their depths by the actual sight of 
English soldiers hewing their way through the streets. Those 
who saw broke into a cheer that was taken up and echoed 
from end to end of the intrencliment, till the very sick joined 
in it, and some even mustered strength to crawl forth to see 
the blessed, long-expected sight. Welcome indeed was that 
sight, but terrible, for the enemy’s fire enfilading ‘the narrow 
street was very heavy, and the English fell at every step. 
Now the battle was at its fiercest, the relieving force had been 
fighting all the long day, and had to cut their way step by 
step in ever-diminishing numbers through the besiegers, 
whom they could not dislodge. . 

Amongst the European infantry was Philip Randal, hardly 
to be recognized as the smart, inanely smiling young officer of 
Jessie’s daguerreotype ; his face was blackened by smoke and 
stained with his own blood, his sword ran with that of the 
enemy, his right hand was red and his sleeve soaked with it, 
his breath came in short gasps, a burning thirst consumed 
him, his limbs trembled, and a red mist swam before his fail- 
ing eyes; with his parched lips compressed and his teeth 
clenched, his one hope was that he might not fall till he 
reached the Residency, if indeed it might be reached after so 
terrible a struggle. He had the good fortune to serve under 
that brave and beautiful soul, who, “ in gratitude for and in 
admiration of the brilliant deeds of arms achieved by General 
Havelock, cheerfully waived his rank in favor of that officer ” 
— tendering his military services to Brigadier-General Have- 
lock as a volunteer, though officially appointed to the com- 
mand of both Havelock and the expedition. Philip felt that 
it was indeed an honor to serve under two such rare and chival- 
rous soldiers, in an operation so fraught with peril and honor. 

Outram’s force never forgot Cawnpore, that word so over- 
weighted with agony and infamy, with heroism and cruelty, 
with pity and horror. They had not, like Havelock’s High- 
landers, been maddened by the sight of the tragic Beebee- 
gurli, ankle deep in the blood of Christian women and chil- 
dren, and the yet more tragic well, over the ghastly contents 
of which they had cried aloud ; but the whole relieving force, 
as they hewed their way through the living wall of dark-faced, 
white-dressed foes under the concentrated fire of the street, 
trusted that they were saving the Lucknow garrison from the 
fate of Cawnpore. 

Philip carried Jessie’s daguerreotype, taken at the same 


108 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


time as bis own and the cause of as much laughter, in his 
breast pocket ; early in the day a musket ball struck and 
shattered the outer half of the case, starring the likeness 
out of all recognition and saving his life ; later on he re- 
ceived a flesh-wound in the leg and a ball grazed his fore- 
head ; else he was unhurt, though nearly exhausted. Sud- 
denly, in the midst of all the fury and agony, a sweet vision 
of Jessie, safe in green and peaceful England, flashed before 
him, and he heard her voice above the thunder of the guns, 
the shouts, the moans, the awful tumult. Was she praying 
for him ? Poor child, he thought, she would soon have no 
brother to pray for, though her picture had saved his life 
once that day. 

The sun sank and the swift-coming darkness fell over the 
city, its domes and minarets, its dark groves and terraced 
roofs, over the placid waters of the Goomtee winding through 
the rich corn plain ; over the battered but unconquered Kesi- 
dency ; and then through all the tumult of the battle, rose 
the triumphant skirl of bag-pipes and a cheer, a deep-chested 
English cheer, low, hoarse, continuous, thunderous as the 
long incessant roar of the ground swell o-n a ragged coast, 
and like that, growing and deepening in volume and majesty. 
Many a dying ear heard it and "was content, a company of 
wan and wasted women and children emerging from their 
damp vaults to snatch one breath of air in the slackening of 
fire after sunset, and wondering among themselves when 
would the relieving force come, heard it with an incredulous, 
delirious joy, soon changed to certainty by the irruption of 
the Highland soldiers among them, and the snatching up of 
the children by their heroic deliverers, to be kissed and cried 
over in their noble joy at having saved them from the fate of 
Cawnpore ; it rolled along the ranks, and heartened up those 
still struggling without ; it struck terror to the souls of the 
dusky foe, and brought new life and energy to the exhausted 
garrison, who took it up and prolonged the grand note till it 
hushed every other sound. In the rapid failing of his pulses, 
Philip heard it and rejoiced, knowing that his life, the life so 
sweet and precious to his youth, was not given in vain ; he, 
too, uttered one exultant cheer with his last strength, some- 
thing crashed on his head, he fell, and the battle raged over 
and away from his prostrate body. 

Lucknow was relieved at last, with the loss of over a 
quarter of the relieving force ; and though after the first 
wild and rapturous emotion of the relieved garrison had sub- 
sided, the relief was found to be but a reinforcement, food 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


109 


and quarters for which could with difficulty be provided, the 
sequel proved that the deed was worth the terrible cost. 

How long Philip lay among the slain he did not know ; 
he was probably protected from further injury by falling 
into one of the trenches cut across the road to impede the 
progress of the troops ; when he regained consciousness he 
found himself a prisoner, deprived of his sword, but fur- 
nished with the water for which he craved with delirious 
agony ; food was given him and he slept a long sleep, and on 
waking found himself not much the worse for his wounds, 
which were not deep, though their copious bleeding had 
helped to exhaust him. As for the crack on the head from a 
clubbed musket, that had left only a surface tenderness and 
a certain mental dulness behind ; and as he looked round 
the dark chamber in which he lay’ on a purdah, a sort of thin 
mattress, he knew that the honor of death on the battle-field 
had been denied him, and that he was probably destined to 
insult and ignominy, and the horrors of death by torture. 
The cold drops stood on his brow ; on searching his clothes 
he found that no weapon, not even a pen-knife, had been left 
him. His money was gone, but the ruby fastened into a 
portion of his dress li^d not been discovered ; Jessie’s shat- 
tered picture still remained. 

The poor lad rose and fell on his knees, echoing the prayer 
which he afterward found written upon a wall in Cawnpore 
— “ Have mercy upon us, and deliver us not into the hands 
of our enemies” — a prayer so pitiful in the light of after- 
events. Many Englishmen and women in that awful year 
turned in extremity to the sure and certain refuge of souls, 
and turned not in vain. Frail women bore witness during the 
siege of Lucknow to the strength procured from that unfailing 
source ; brave men grew braver. Philip had often stood at 
handcrips with Death ; he had volunteered in many a desper- 
ate deed before Sebastopol ; he had earned, though never won, 
the Victoria Cross, but he was too imaginative to go under fire 
without a full sense of peril such as had made him tremble 
and turn pale on his first experience at the Alma ; and now, 
with the memory of Cawnpore, Shahjehanpore, and other 
places of horror fresh in his mind, his joints seemed loosened 
and his bones melted like wax within him. Yet women and 
children had borne worse. Outside his dark prison-house 
tin infernal siege-symphony, with the addition of a terrific 
explosion, crashed on ; he heard the sound of elephants draw- 
ing guns. Jessie alone would mourn him ; he could not 
fulfil the trust her dying father had laid on him, He had 


110 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


taken care to make a will leaving bis small fortune to her. 
Perhaps after all, she would be better without him ; she was 
so young she would easily form fresh ties, and they had al- 
ready been separated so long. All was at an end ; the strong, 
beautiful life, the perils and chances he loved so well ; name- 
less as he was, he must sink nameless and unnamed from the 
sight of living men, from darkness he must j3ass to darkness, 
like a spark seen a moment in a night sky and then forever 
quenched, like the white spray cresting a wave and dissipated 
in the waters, like a moonbeam shot through a breaking 
cloud and engulfed again in the night. How different was 
the going of Henry Lawrence but three months since ; how 
different would it be with Havelock and Outram if they fell, 
as, for all he knew, they might already have done, each leav- 
ing the memory of a noble life and stainless name. Thus 
Philip lamented his youth. 

Soon he was led before commanding officers and ques- 
tioned, though on most points the rebels knew far more 
than he. Insults and threats of torture were sometimes his 
portion ; twice or thrice he was returned to his prison and 
left in that awful suspense, which was not the least among 
the trials Englishmen endured durivg the rebellion. His 
prison was changed, he was transported aimlessly from place 
to place, led out to execution and covered with muskets, which 
after all were not fired, or fired in the air. 

Often he felt that the bitterness of death was past, but 
again and again the agony was prolonged, and he expected 
no mercy in the end. His first acquaintance with the Indian 
people was made at an unfortunate time ; in all those dark, 
fierce, turbaned faces round him, he saw only fiends of cru- 
elty, heathen fanatics, bound by devilish rites to all iniquity. 
As tragedy after tragedy had reached his tingling ears, his 
horror of those alien Asiatics had grown, till he said things 
of them and the treatment due to them which shocked Jessie 
then, and himself, in after-years. He did not reflect that the 
revolt was, after all, but a military and partial outbreak ; he 
had seen nothing of the intelligence, the culture, the grace- 
ful manners of these interesting and picturesque peoples ; had 
heard nothing of the magnificent fidelity and noble generosity 
of which many of them gave proof during the Mutiny. He 
did not remember that even the worst deeds of cruelty 
wrought upon conquerors of an alien race, a hated religion, 
and a different civilization, were equalled by what the 
“ most polished people ” in Christendom did to their own 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Ill 


countrymen and fellow-Christians in the French Revolution ; 
nor did he know how dreadful some of the English reprisals 
had been. 

One day he found himself unbound in an abandoned 
house on the outskirts of the city, by the river, guarded 
slightly and carelessly. Presently he discerned from his 
window a great tumult : natives, both sepoys and civilians, 
rushing headlong in wildest panic, amid the thunder of a 
furious cannonade and crash of the explosion of an English 
mine beneath a large building held by the rebels ; and tak- 
ing advantage of the tumult and confusion and flight of his 
guards, effected his escape through unlocked doors. He 
caught up a tulwar among the arms the soldiers had thrown 
away in their panic and made for the river, unheeded in the 
general flight. Seeing a boat, he sprang into it, pushed off 
and floated down stream, for he had no oars. He saw the • 
English flag waving still above the battered Residency, which 
was as fiercely bombarded as ever, though the besiegers had 
been beaten back from the immediate vicinity of the posi- 
tion. He felt himself borne farther and farther from them, 
until the caprice of the current sent him ashore some miles 
away from the city, beneath a grove of mangoes, into the 
shade and shelter of which he was glad to crawl. 

The half-closed wound had burst open again during his 
flight, he had been unable to bind it properly ; every moment 
he grew fainter with loss of blood beneath the scorching sun, 
until he sank at last, unconscious, just within the grove. 

When he returned to consciousness, dark, turbaned faces 
were bending over him, restoratives were given him, his 
wound was bound up, he was lifted gently into a palanquin 
well sheltered from the sun, and borne away, he knew not 
whither. 

Some time after darkness had fallen, they reached a small 
town ; the bearers set down the palanquin before an arched 
door which opened to admit them, and Philip presently found 
himself in a courtyard surrounded by buildings ; outside of 
which was a verandah lighted by lamps from within, and par- 
tially illumined by the slant rays of the moon from without. 

A Hindoo lady dressed in bright silks, with gold anklets and 
bangles, came out to welcome and receive a tall and dignified 
man in the prime of life, whom Philip recognized as having 
bound up his wound ; men servants salaamed, there was much 
talking in an unknown tongue, and many and strange cere- 
monies confusing to Philip. The tall Hindoo having entered 
the house, soon came back with ashes taken from the altar 


112 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


upon his brow ; and turning to Philip, bowed himself to him, 
touched his feet in token of respect, and bid him welcome in 
the name of God to the house of Gossamjee Bliose. 

Philip, wondering and half dazed, could only speak some 
words of thanks as he was taken from the litter and led into 
the house, through which the sound of a female voice, softly 
singing, was heard. He was conducted to a room containing 
a low bedstead of strange fashion, and furnished with all that 
was necessary for air and coolness. Ruksbliai Ghose, Gossam- 
jee’s wife, then appeared with some pleasant drink, and bid him 
welcome in words of which he could only distinguish a few. 

Dishes of curiosly cooked food were then brought, with 
warm water, a native dress, including a turban, in which 
Philip arrayed himself with a sort of dreamy incredulity. 
Having washed, dressed, and eaten, he lay down upon his 
charpoy much refreshed, and half fearful lest a clap of hands 
should be heard and this strange Arabian Nights vision should 
vanish. Instead of which, his kind host entered, surveyed 
him with benevolent satisfaction, saw to his bandages, and 
bid him rest, saying that he would come and talk to him on 
the morrow — which he did, bringing a native doctor, who 
examined and dressed the wound and departed. 

“All that you now require, sir,” Gossamjee said, “is a few 
days perfect rest and freedom from anxiety. The doctor 
thinks your wound will then be quite healed.” 

“ Why are you so kind to me, a stranger and foreigner fight- 
ing against your fellow-countrymen ? ” Philip asked of this ver- 
itable Good Samaritan, when he had told him his name and 
military rank, and briefly narrated his adventures of the last 
few days. 

Gossamjee Bhose sat on a cushion on the ground, with his 
arms clasped round his knees, before Philip, who w r as sitting 
on the bedstead. He observed that it was a duty to succor 
the unfortunate and to exercise hospitality, and further that 
he loved the Feringhees. The English Bah, he said, was just 
and merciful, and beneath it merchants, like himself, could 
carry on their trades in peace without molestation. He 
trusted before long to see this outbreak subdued, and the 
English rule restored ; for the natives had suffered much from 
anarchy in some places, and despotism in others. Sir Henry 
Lawrence was a just man, and a lover of the native races ; his 
name was mentioned by many at the lighting of lamps, his 
death was a calamity to all who had known the beneficence of 
his sway ; for his sake, all English were welcome to whatever 
aid Gossamjee Bhose could give them. Qutram was a good 


JiV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


113 


man, he had charged his people to “ spare the holy places.” 
The Mohammedan rule was very different, as the people of 
Oude found to their cost. It must not be known that 
Gossamjee had an English officer in his house. Beelampore, 
the name of the town in which he lived, was groaning under 
the oppression of a fanatical and intolerant moulvie, who had 
defiled the temple with the abomination of cow’s flesh. Gos- 
samjee had taken the liberty of destroying Kandal Sahib’s 
dress, in which he had found a valuable jewel ; he begged 
that his highness would wear his turban when at the window, 
or on the house-top ; and conform, so far as his religion per- 
mitted him, to Hindoo customs, in some of which he at once 
instructed him. He then left him, sending his son, Chunia, 
a lad of sixteen, who taught him the mysteries of the luxuri- 
ous hubble-bubble and several useful Hindostanee phrases. 

8 


CHAPTER II. 


THE HINDOO LADY. 

Philip sat smoking his hubble-bubble by lamp-light that 
evening, pondering ways and means of returning to Lucknow 
when lie should be well enough, and penetrating the rebel 
lines to the relieving force, which, as he now learned, was 
closely besieged and in its turn awaiting relief, he wondered 
what Jessie would think if she could but peep through the 
latticed window upon him. This amused him so much that 
he laughed and swallowed some of the rose-water through the 
tube, half choking himself, this reminded him that the art of 
smoking the native pipe was not to be learnt in a moment, 
any more than the native fashion of sitting which he w T as 
practising, with his turban on, his slippers off, and an expres- 
sion of profound gravity upon his face. Jessie would not 
recognize her brother in this dignified young Hindoo. How 
amused Campbell would be ! Ah, no, he remembered, Camp- 
bell, the bright boy ensign who had joined a few weeks before 
they came out, and whom Philip had taken into his heart of 
hearts, would never more be amusing or amused. Tears 
filled his eyes and he laid the pipe aside, recalling his last 
sight of Charlie Campbell, cut almost in two by a round 
shot, as they passed the deadly Kaiser Bagh. Then he 
thought mournfully of others, officers and men, whom he had 
seen fall in the fierce rush to the Residency. 

As he was thus sadly musing and listening to a subdued 
chanting, which sounded pleasantly through the house, a low 
knock was heard at his door. 

“Come in,” he said, in the faltering Hindostanee, of which 
he had of course picked up a few words before his arrival at 
Beelampore. 

The door opened quickly and softly, and as quickly and 
softly closed again behind a vision that struck him dumb 
with amazement. It was the figure of a tall, slim Hindoo girl, 
dressed in gay liued silk, with a brilliant silken sari thrown 
gracefully over her head and shoulders, and with golden or- 
naments upon her round, brown arms, and slender ankles, 


IN the heart of the storm. 


115 


Gossamjee’s lesson on Hindoo manners not having included 
the etiquette proper to the reception of an uninvited lady in 
his private apartments, Philip was embarrassed as to what he 
ought to do. He had only time, in his first startled gaze at 
her, to observe that dark as she was her features were refined 
and intelligent, and that something in her sorrowful dark ej^es 
not only entranced him, but evoked a tumult of memory and 
feeling, before he rose, and making his newly learnt salaam, 
stood with folded arms and bent head, as if awaiting com- 
mands. This was indeed an unexpected and agreeable ex- 
citement in the monotony of his honorable captivity. A 
strange combination of feelings thrilled him, and made him 
wonder that the sight of a pretty Hindoo woman should so 
stir him. 

“Mr. Randal,'’ said the lady, in a low, thrilling voice which 
set his heart beating; “you do not, of course, remember 
me?” 

The English accent was perfect, and Philip, in bewilder- 
ment, raised his downcast head and looked earnestly into 
the dark, beautiful face. 

“Gossamjee Bhose is watching lest the servants should 
know I am here,” she said, in her low, clear voice; “speak 
softly, we have but a few minutes. I danced with you last 

winter at a ball given by the th Dragoons. You had a 

telegram ” 

“ I danced with Miss Maynard,” he faltered. 

“I am now called Malwai Bhose, Gossamjee’s orphan 
niece. He is hiding me. I* am the only survivor of Jella- 
pore,” she replied, “my brother was deputy commissioner 
there, he and his wife and children — no European was 
spared. My ayah concealed me in a stack of firewood, she 
had persuaded me first to stain myself and masquerade in 

native dress Ah ! Mr. Randal, I cannot speak of it — that 

time of suspense — my brother would have sent us away, but 
that might have precipitated things and the country was not 
safe. I did not think it was so near when I first put on the 
ayah’s dress. But I must make haste. You come from 
Lucknow. My brother Arthur, Captain Arthur Maynard, is 
there, have you seen him ? ” 

“I never reached the position, Miss Maynard. I fell in the 
last rush and w 7 as taken prisoner,” he replied ; “but when my 
wound is healed I must get there somehow, when I may see 
your brother.” 

He said may advisedly, for he knew that the loss during 
the siege must have been great. 


116 


JiV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“You will tell him my story, Mr. Kandal,” she continued, 
“ it was for this I wished to speak with you, and prevailed 
upon Kuksbliai to persuade Gossamjee to permit this hurried 
visit. He — and indeed my poor mother and all my people — 
will have heard of the disaster at Jellapore, and suppose me 
to have perished.” 

Philip listened to this recital, his heart tom by pity, ad- 
miration, surprise, fear, he knew not what. He could scarcely 
identify the pretty, light-hearted girl with whom he had 
danced but a few months before, and whom he had half de- 
spised, in spite of the spell she had cast upon him, with this 
stately Hindoo in her picturesque dress, with the look of tragic 
endurance stamped upon her face, and depths of thought and 
suffering in her eyes. The lamp-light shone directly upon 
her, playing upon the dark hair half concealed by the crimson 
and gold sari, and on the mournful dignity of the face, which 
looked as if the light of mirth could never move it from its 
deep sorrowful repose. She had developed rapidly during 
the last few months ; experiences that would have crushed 
some natures, had ripened hers. She had been called upon 
to endure physically and mentally ; mind and body had 
equally responded to the sudden strain ; her stature had in- 
creased, and the girlish outlines of her figure had rounded 
themselves to noble proportions. Her air and gestures were 
carefully studied and formed in the Hindoo mould ; she dared 
not be herself one moment in the house of Gossamjee Bhose, 
where her assumed character needed most careful preserva- 
tion, for his sake as well as her own. But though Ada May- 
nard was so changed and developed, and partially disguised, 
there was a nameless something, the spell of an ineffable 
charm, which identified her with the gay hearted girl of the 
ball-room, and thrilled Philip’s heart to its depths. Some 
idea of the difficulty and desolation of her position amongst 
this strange heathen people, 'with their complicated caste 
prejudices, and their iron code of female subjection and re- 
striction flashed upon him as he questioned her rapidly and 
incoherently, with exclamations of wonder, sympathy, and de- 
sire to help, scarcely knowing what he said in the tumult of 
his feelings, and half maddened by his impotence to help her, 
wounded, honorably imprisoned, and alone among unknown 
enemies and doubtful friends as he was. 

“Tell my brother that I am here, alive and safe,” she said, 
at the close of the hurried, half-whispered interview. “ Tell 
him I never part with this,” she added, quietly drawing a 
keen, quaintly fashioned dagger from her clothing, and letting 


IZV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


117 


tlie light flash upon the damascened blade, before she again 
concealed it. “I know exactly where to strike fatally.” She 
paused, listened, and then bidding him a hasty good-night 
and drawing the silken sari more closely about her, vanished 
as suddenly and silently as she had appeared, leaving Philip 
gazing with a dazed, incredulous look on the space she had 
just occupied, before he sank on the edge of the low bedstead 
and buried his face in his hands, striving to shut out from 
his vision the baleful flash of the dagger which haunted him 
long after, most eloquently speaking of the perils women have 
to face in times of anarchy and tumult, and recalling the 
many terrible and sometimes untrue stories he had heard of 
the horrors of the last few months. She knew where to strike 
fatally ! How calmly she had spoken, as if assuring him of 
the most ordinary fact. And he was powerless to help her. 
The hubble-bubble and the Hindoo posture were alike for- 
gotten, the turban was pushed farther back from the brow 
clamp with horror, and Philip sat, a very European picture of 
trouble and dismay, feeling the full tragedy of the mutiny as 
he had never done before. He had heard of Jellapore, where 
Ada Maynard’s own sister-in-law had been flung alive into 
the flames of a burning building before her husband’s eyes, 
and thrust back with bayonets till she died. . Was it all a 
dream ? He rose and looked round the little room with its 
swinging lamp and scanty foreign furniture ; he looked out 
of the open bay window shaded by its sun-lattice, and saw 
the moonlight sleeping peacefully on the housetops, and 
scarcely penetrating the narrow streets, touching a gilded 
cupola with burning silver, shining upon gracefully swaying 
palms and dark masses of unfamiliar foliage in the distance, 
and bringing out the bastioned walls and turrets of a castle 
upon a hill — the architecture of which was like a confused 
dream of feudalism and Gothic Middle Ages blended fantasti- 
cally with oriental splendor and despotism, the whole touched 
with the peculiar glamour of the East and the deep enchant- 
ment of the days of chivalry. 

The magic of that rich and splendid Eastern land had 
scarcely affected him in the constant succession of adventures 
and dangers ; he could even look unmoved upon the grace of 
the slender symbolic palms, the very name of which has a 
charm, calling up a thousand associations. He had first seen 
these “palms and temples of the south” through a medium 
of bloodshed and horror, but to-night the domes of burning 
silver, the light soaring grace of the minarets rising above 
them, the dark, rich, foreign foliage, and the castle on the 


118 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


hillside, all sleeping in the clear moonlight, woke in him a 
feeling of beauty and romance to be remembered forever. 

Chunia had told him the name of the owner of that castle, 
a native nobleman, neutral in the present strife. What it 
he should prove a friend, as more than one rajah had been to 
fugitive English that summer. 

Gossamjee Bhose soon dissipated that illusion ; he held up 
a bamboo, split and tied together at the ends. “ Bo you see 
this, Randal Sahib ? ” he asked, “ whoever leans upon the aid 
of the Rajah Mohun Singh, leans upon this bamboo ; ” here 
he cut the binding string, while placing his hand on the top 
of the cane, which gave way in half a dozen directions and 
fell on the floor. “ Mohun Singh would give you fair words 
and lodge you in his castle one day, and the next he would 
betray you. As the reeds by the river side, so is he, blown 
this way and that by all the winds of heaven.” 

This description of the rajah tallied only too well with 
Philip’s conceptions of the native character as formed by the 
experiences of fugitive English and public report, and when 
he looked into the keen, mobile face of his host and benefac- 
tor, and listened to his smooth and honeyed words, and ob- 
served the obsequious politeness of his manner, being yet new 
to Asiatic ways, he wondered if it were wise to trust Gossam- 
jee any further than he could see him. He thought not, and 
yet he and Ada Maynard were completely at his mercy. 

Philip guarded his words and narrowly watched Gossamjee 
Bhose whenever they were together, and sometimes at chess, 
which the hospitable Hindoo played to beguile the time for 
his wounded guest, fancied that he detected double meanings 
in the remarks he made on the game, which always termi- 
nated in victory for the Hindoo. Nor did Gossamjee’s fre- 
quent observation, as he left the apartment, to the effect that 
Philip was his father, and that his house and all he possessed 
belonged absolutely and exclusively to Randal Sahib, reassure 
him in the least degree. Therefore he did not entrust Ada’s 
precious ruby to him, forgetting that Gossamjee had already 
resisted one favorable opportunity of keeping it ; nor did he 
tell him of the treasure Ada Maynard had left with him on 
her hurried visit. This was a tracing on tissue paper, so 
small that it could be concealed in a quill, of a plan of Luck- 
now, its environs and the various roads leading to it ; which 
she herself had made from a plan found among one of the 
murdered European officer’s effects by the friendly ayah, to 
whose husband the spoil had fallen. This Philip pondered 
over until it was traced upon the yet finer tissue of his brain. 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


119 


His wounds were healing rapidly, and the repose after the 
tremendous exertions of the last few weeks before Lucknow 
was most welcome and refreshing. Gossamjee remarked on 
his improvement, but besought him not to leave him until he 
was quite recovered ; reminding him that sick and wounded 
are more hindrance than help in the field ; until Philip began 
to wonder if he had some sinister purpose in retaining him 
beneath his roof. It was true that he need not have suc- 
cored him in the first instance, much less have taken him to 
his house as he had done ; but the actions of natives during 
the rebellion had shown such a want of consistency, and such 
a purposeless tortuousness, they had been so unsteady alike 
in their loyalty and their hostility in many cases, that it was 
no wonder if plain Englishmen feared to trust any dark faces 
in those days. 

The weather was still very hot, and he had found much re- 
freshment in sleeping in the veranda after the first few 
nights. Perhaps he had some vague notion that he would be 
better able to penetrate to the women’s apartments to help 
Ada, perhaps, also, he felt freer and more capable of self- 
defence in the open court than shut up in his room. 

He had passed three or four days beneath Gossamjee’-s 
roof ; it was now October, he little knew what magnificent 
chances of distinction he was losing in the first terrible week 
after the storming of the English position. He slept tran- 
quilly on his mat, dreaming of the great willow by the mill 
stream, the pleasant, cool sound of the turning mill-wheel, 
the familiar faces in the firelight, his father and mother given 
back to him, as the dead so often are in dreams, and Jessie a 
child again, light-hearted, spoilt, and happy. Perhaps Jessie, 
safe beneath Miss Blushford’s prim guardianship, was even 
then dreaming the same dream, on her white curtained, la- 
vender-scented pillow, seeing Philip again with his manhood 
and his Crimean laurels fresh upon him. Perhaps she started 
from her tranquil sleep, thought of her poor boy fighting in 
distant India, and said a prayer for him before turning again 
to her rest. 

Philip’s dream suddenly changed to the dim and tumult of 
battle, he was before Sebastopol again, volunteering to replace 
some shattered gabions under heavy fire, when a musket ball 
again struck him in the shoulder ; again he clenched his teeth 
with pain, and went on adjusting the gabions with the unin- 
jured arm ; but the pain of the wound grew and grew beyond 
all bearing till with, what he thought, a loud cry he awoke. 

The moonlight lay upon the courtyard, a palm-tree stand- 


120 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


ing motionless in the centre traced its plumed crown blackly 
against the deep sky, and cast its elongated shadow right 
athwart the court toward him ; another, a human shadow, 
fell across his recumbent form ; instead of a gun-shot wound 
a dark, light hand was grasping his shoulder, a dark turbaned 
face came between him and the moonlight, a Hindoo youth 
was bending over him, dimly seen against the strong moon- 
light. 

“ Chunia ! ” he exclaimed, starting up. 

“ Hush ! ” whispered the lad, in a voice which stirred him, 
“ keep in the shadow and follow me.” 

He rose without hesitation or question and catching up 
such clothes as he had laid aside, followed the slim and grace- 
ful figure, wondering if this might be some fresh scene from 
dreamland, or the sweet madness of a fairy tale, and filled 
with a vague delight in the mystery, romance, and probable 
danger of following his fugitive countrywoman in her fresh 
disguise. He was bound to be her knight, his life was at her 
service ; as she explained nothing she had doubtless good 
reason for her silence. Noiselessly gliding into the shadow, she 
flitted round the veranda, passing close to the sleeping forms 
of Gossamjee and Chunia, each on his purdah, till she reached 
a door, in the lock of which she placed a key which turned 
without sound. 

She relocked the door while Philip waited, silent and 
almost breathless in the absolute darkness ; then with a whis-. 
pered “ Come,” led him along a dark passage until they 
emerged into the narrow street of Beelampore ; Ada softly 
locking the last door behind her. Then she paused a moment, 
pushing him back into the shadow, from which he had incau- 
tiously escaped, placed a parcel in his hands, and after 
listening intently and looking, as if in doubt, this way and 
that, started again, still barefoot and noiseless, as was Philip. 

They passed the bazaar, which he had been able to watch 
from his window when it was filled with busy, chaffering trade 
people, then an amusing and picturesque scene, but now 
silent as a tomb ; they passed the Hindoo temple, recently 
defiled by order of the despotic moulvie, and unmolested, save 
by a growl or snap from the curs prowling the town for offal, 
left the houses behind them. Ada then stopped a moment 
to put on her shoes, and Philip was too glad to follow her ex- 
ample, for their feet were already wounded by stones, and 
then, silent and ghost-like in their white dresses, by which 
each could faintly distinguish the other even in the darkness, 
they sped onward and now upward till the road led them 
beneath the embattled walls of Moliun Singh’s castle. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


121 


The moonlight smiled broadly upon the castle walls, show- 
ing a beautiful arcade of pointed arches and slender pillars 
fashioned in the wall above, from which, for all they knew, a 
sentry might he watching ; they crept along past the lofty 
wall on the opposite side in the shadow cast by some trees, 
Philip all the time keeping one hand on the long, sharp, dag- 
ger-like knife that Gossamjee had given him with his native 
dress, and remembering the dagger Ada flashed in the lamp- 
light on the night of her visit to him. No sound came from 
the sleeping castle, nothing molested them, they reached the 
crest of the hill and looked back upon Beelampore lying far 
below them in the magical light. Then his guide slackened 
her hitherto rapid pace, and at last broke silence. 


CHAPTER III 


THE TWO COMRADES. 

“ We are going to Lucknow, Mr. Randal,” Ada said ; 
“ where does it lie ? ” 

He did not know ; Beelampore was not in the plan she had 
given him. His guide then told him that she was not sure 
of the locality herself, but was certain that it was consider- 
ably north of Beelampore. 

This information was most depressing, especially when a 
sudden twinge reminded Philip of his recent wound. He 
looked with dismay at his companion’s slender form, con- 
spicuous in the white boy’s dress, and tried to calculate the 
distance from Lucknow by the time it had taken the bearers 
to convey him in his palanquin to Beelampore. Alas ! these 
bearers, besides being swift and practiced runners, knew 
the way and were not obliged to hide themselves. The ad- 
venture was a desperate one. 

“We must make the best of the darkness,” Ada said, tran- 
quilly at this juncture. “It will be well to lie quiet during 
the day. You have been very good and given me no trouble 
with questions and hesitations.” 

“I am at your service,” he replied, simply ; “I know that 
you would not have left your refuge but for good reason.” 

“Good reason indeed,” she said. “ You have heard Gos- 
samjee Bliose speak of the tyrannical moulvie who caused 
the Hindoo temple to be defiled. This man has sworn that 
there shall be no more English, and for that reason Gossam- 
jee was so anxious to pass us both off as Hindoos. With me 
he succeeded fairly well. I was in India until eleven years 
old. Hindostanee is my second language. I know much 
of native ways, besides, women do not attract much atten- 
tion, their lives are passed in such seclusion. But you ar- 
rived in English uniform, and wounded, and this somehow 
got wind. Gossamjee suspects that one of the servants 
turned traitor. These people are always intriguing, and 
some friendly traitor warned Gossamjee of the moulvie’s 
plan, which was to search his house — probably this very 


liV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


123 


night. He told Ruksbhai also that he would defend us to 
the death. Poor Ruksbhai herself proposed our flight ; she 
had the locks oiled, and gave me a master key and a suit of 
Cliunia’s clothes, and furnished me with food and a little 
money. Dear Ruksbhai, she is a good actor, and I hope that 
she will be able to persuade Gossamjee that she knows noth- 
ing of our disappearance. She had to take old Torn into 
her confidence. Toru dare not betray her mistress. Gossam- 
jee would certainly beat her for her part in it. And for such 
a breach of hospitality he would beat Ruksbhai severely. 
Dear Gossamjee, I wish I might have bid him good-by and 
thanked him. He is such a noble-minded man. Even Ruks- 
bhai loves him, though he is her husband. How I shall miss 
them all. You did not see Rajmahli, of course ? But j^ou 
may have heard a girl’s voice singing hymns. It was Raj- 
mahli. She is sixteen, and a widow. I taught her many 
things, and we studied Sanscrit together. And little Sata, 
a child of six. Poor baby ! It is bad enough to be a woman 
in any case, but to be a Hindoo woman ; there is nothing 
more terrible, except to be a Mohammedan woman.” 

“ They are used to it,” he replied, his mind busy with more 
personal matters. 

“ And I am used to being a woman,” she returned, with a 
scornful smile, “ but I find the more I am used to it the less 
I like it.” 

“ You surely would not wish to be a man ? ” Philip remon- 
strated. Perhaps salmon, mackerel, and such lucky fish as are 
not skinned alive, consider that discipline excellent for eels, 
who, like Mohammedan women, are used to it. 

“At all events,” she returned, “I must look as much like 
a boy as I can till this little excursion is at an end. My 
name is Carendra Lai, you are Bassenjee Lai, my brother, 
and we are returning from some pilgrimage to Lucknow, 
where our parents live. An impediment in your speech 
obliges me to be spokesman on all occasions.” 

The moon set and clouds arose, gradually blotting out 
the stars. They travelled along in the darkness, listening to 
the cries of wild beasts from the jungle they were approach- 
ing, and talking but little ; Philip regretting that he had left 
Gossamjee’s hospitable roof without a word of thanks or fare- 
well, and speculating on the trouble that might befall the 
honest merchant on their account. It was well that Ada had 
explained nothing beforehand, as in that case he would have 
felt himself bound to tell his good host of his intended flit- 
ting. 


124 


IK THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Gossamjee will surely think me ungrateful,” he said. 

“ No,” his companion replied ; “ he will think that we 
found a favorable opportunity for flight, and will be glad that 
we did it before getting him into trouble. It was agreed be- 
tween us that I was to seize any chance that offered without 
telling him, so that he might be unable to furnish any clue 
in case of pursuit. There are some very fierce fanatics at 
Beelampore who think English blood the most dainty offering 
for their gods. Oh, Mr. Bandal, how beautiful it is to be 
free. Yours is the first English voice I have heard since — 
for three months,” she said, her breath catching at the mem- 
ory of the last English voice she had heard ; “and I have not 
had so much as an English Bible to read, and have only 
spoken English when teaching Bajmahli, and sometimes her 
father and her brother.” 

“ Poor child ! ” Philip replied, touched at the thought of 
her desolation, “ I wish I were ten men for your sake.” 

The dawn was breaking now, not the sudden splendor of 
the tropics, but a much less gradual dawn than we know in 
these latitudes. The air grew sharp, the darkness seemed 
deeper, and then the clouds cleared off, the east glimmered 
grayly and turned to white and gold, the great sun leapt up 
from the horizon into a sky of deep glowing orange ; the 
warm autumn day was near. 

Ada’s spirits had been rising with the sense of freedom, 
and the stimulus of action, the terrible sorrow and suspense 
of the last few months was succeeded by a natural reaction. 
She could have sung in the lightness of her heart. 

“How beautiful the world is ! ” she exclaimed, as she 
watched the glory of the sunrise with tears in her eyes, “ and 
how beautiful it is only just to be alive. I am sure that we 
shall get through the lines, Mr. Kandal. I think that God 
means to deal more gently now — I have suffered so much, 
and you have suffered, too. And how shall I ever be able to 
thank you?” 

“If I can help you I shall need no other thanks,” he re- 
plied ; “but it strikes me that if I get into Lucknow alive 
I shall owe it to you.” 

They went into a grove of mangoes for concealment rather 
than shade, to rest awhile, and eat some of the food Ada had 
brought with her ; and a more paradisaic breakfast perhaps 
had never been taken. The world lying before them in the 
beauty of the morning was so fresh, so young, and so bright ; 
the experience was so new and so romantic. 

Philip scarcely knew Ada in her fresh disguise ; the merry 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


125 


Hindoo lad with the sparkling eyes differed as much from the 
dignified, deep-voiced Indian lady telling him her sad story, 
as the latter contrasted with the iight-liearted girl in the ball- 
room. His spirits rose with the glory of the fresh morning, 
and the infection of Ada’s, but he could not forget the ex- 
treme peril of their position and his own heavy responsibility, 
and ate the chupatties and fruit he found in bis bundle with 
an undercurrent of serious thought. 

“ Brother Bassamjee,” Ada said hurriedly, after a time, “ I 
wonder in which direction Lucknow lies.” 

Then it struck Philip that, having walked for so many 
hours, they ought by this time to be within hearing of the 
siege guns. He looked over the prospect before him, a rich 
plain dotted with villages among corn-fields, groves, and 
paddy fields, with the eternal palm springing here and there ; 
he could see no sign of a large city, or large river. Beelam- 
pore was left far behind out of sight. He had no idea where 
he was. 

“ We shall soon find the road,” he said in a reassuring 
voice. “Only keep up your heart, Miss Maynard.” 

Their frugal meal finished, and their feet washed in a 
stream, the travellers went refreshed upon their way toward 
a village, where Ada’s inquiries procured the disquieting in- 
formation that they had been diligently walking away from 
Lucknow all night, and must now retrace their steps, though 
they were not obliged to pass Beelampore again. 

The sun waxed warmer as they walked, and both began to 
flag, Philip even limping, as the effort told upon his wounded 
leg. 

“It would have been nothing without an adventure,” Ada 
commented joyously ; “ you didn’t suppose we were going to 
walk across to Lucknow as one walks across the fields to 
church at home, Mr. Kandal ? ” And he certainly did not. 

They had now reached a ravine formed by a cascade dash- 
ing from a height ; the steep sides were partly clothed with 
wood, and as it was evident that both were tired out, they 
rested in this cool and pleasant retreat till the sun’s worst 
force should be expended. Here Philip prepared a couch 
with leaves and undergrowth, but before he had made much 
way with it Ada, who had thrown herself at the foot of a tree 
and begun to discuss their plans, suddenly became silent, her 
head drooping on her breast. She had fallen asleep, dead 
beat. She scarcely stirred when he lifted her gently from the 
earth and placed her on the greenwood couch, himself sitting 
near and fanning the insects off with a green bough. He 


II A THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


126 


sat thus for many hours, battling with the drowsiness that 
threatened to overcome him, and pondering their situation 
and plans, a perfect passion of pity and tenderness sweeping 
over him whenever his eyes rested upon the sleeping girl, 
and he thought of her courage and patience, her utter desola- 
tion and dependence upon him. 

They had decided to sleep by turns in the day, and travel 
again at night ; but Ada, who had taken no exercise for many 
months, was so exhausted that the day wore on and nearly 
away while she slept, and Philip could only keep himself 
awake by pacing to and fro, to the discomfort of his wounded 
leg. But at last the sleep faded from her face, she sighed, 
stirred, and woke, springing to her feet when her eyes opened 
upon Philip’s haggard face, and reproaching him for letting 
her sleep on — for they did not think it safe to sleep without a 
watch, a temple above the cascade giving evidence of human 
habitation near. 

Then Philip took her place for an hour, and she watched 
and fanned in turn, and her heart in turn melted with pity 
w r hen she looked upon the bronzed tired face and the strong 
limbs relaxed in the helplessness of sleep. 

If wild beasts cease to harm each other, and unite to face 
a common danger, how much more binding is the tie of 
endurance and peril when shared by human beings ? And 
these had for each other the subtle charms of youth and 
sex, together with diversity of character and beauty ; they 
w r ere alone together in the wide world, surrounded by 
cruel and treacherous enemies, at the mercy of elemental 
forces, hot noons, chill nights, beasts of prey and venomous 
reptiles, malaria, hunger, and the pestilence that slays and 
wastes at that season in those climates. Each felt some- 
thing of the tremendous forces drawing them together, 
but their youth and the exigencies of the moment hin- 
dered them from seeing how deep and subtle those forces 
were. 

Another night’s walking, they hoped, would bring them 
to the rebel lines ; but it was not so. What with sickness 
and other mischances, it was days later w r hen two young 
English-speaking Hindoos were suffered to pass the English 
outposts in the evening, and brought guarded into the 
entrenchments. 

Foot-sore and weary, thin and haggard, their white cloth- 
ing stained and torn, they were led before Europeans almost 
as tattered, soiled, and wasted as themselves; when the 
younger lad, who was half supported by the elder, suddenly 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


127 


uttered a cry and ran toward a tall man clad in a ragged, dirty 
flannel shirt, shabby trousers and slippers, but accoutred as a 
private soldier, and wearing an officer’s sword. 

“Arthur, don’t you know me?” sobbed the boy, throwing 
himself upon the astonished officer. 

“ She escaped from Jellypore in disguise,” the other fugitive 
explained. “ You may be sure of your sister by this token, 
Captain Maynard,” he added, producing a large ruby from his 
clothing. “ Miss Maynard dropped this while dancing with 
me, Philip Randal, of the 190th, last winter, and I took it in 
charge for her until now.” 

Then ensued a scene in which recognition, doubt, fear and 
hope, sorrow and joy, were tumultuously mingled, one of many 
similar scenes enacted in Lucknow that year, when the sup- 
posed dead suddenly reappeared after long wanderings, and 
those reputed living were as suddenly discovered to have been 
long dead ; when reunited friends met with terror, framing 
questions their lips almost refused to utter, and their ears 
dreaded to hear answered. 

“ Is father alive ? And mother ? — Where is your wife ? 
Algernon was killed and Ethel and all the children — None 
were saved, civilians or soldiers — My children are gone — My 
wife still lives — Her baby is a month old — There is still 
food in the garrison — We have lost all we possessed — We left 
cantonments in the clothes we stood in — You are ill — I am 
starved — Ah, poor child, and worn out — And Havelock is ill 
— Sir Colin is coming — A little patience — Thank God how 
sad — How sweet — ” and such like mingled questions and an- 
swers amid tears and smiles, and ejaculations of sorrow and 
wonder, to the crashing of the grim siege-symphony over- 
head. 

The fugitives separated without farewell ; Ada was taken to 
her brother’s wife, and Philip, with a keen pang at a parting 
he felt to be final, at least as far as the close and pleasant 
companionship in the last days of suffering and danger was 
concerned, went to the quarters assigned to his regiment, 
where another equally ghastly but less emotional scene of re- 
cognition, inquiry, sad response, and half sorrowful welcome 
occurred, in the midst of which the diabolical war music rose 
in a deafening fortissimo ; the wall of the temporary mess 
room crashed in, admitting a heavy exploding body, men fell 
in various directions like so many ninepins, the sound of 
smashing crockery and shattering furniture was mingled with 
groans, and followed by silence and darkness. 

Philip, stunned by the noise, and blinded by the thick dust- 


128 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


cloud, wondered that he was still alive, and supposed himself 
the only survivor of the explosion ; when the cloud began to 
dissipate itself, a light was struck, and a voice quietly re- 
marked : 

“ Their practice is improving. The last only ploughed the 
compound a bit.” 

“ What I hate is their confounded stink-pots,” said another 
voice, and the whole assembly, the officers being then at din- 
ner, was soon on its feet, and making use of such furniture as 
was not smashed, adapting broken things and continuing the 
repast, as far as circumstances permitted, which was not very 
far. The body of a poor native servant, the only victim of the 
exploding shell, was quietly removed without comment a few 
minutes later. 

Then Philip heard of the terrific loss on September 25th, 
and during the following week, when amputated limbs lay 
in heaps in the hospital, of the continued fury of the siege 
and apparently undiminished numbers of the enemy, who 
had rolled back for a short distance round the original en- 
trenched position as the sea would roll back from cliffs ris- 
ing out of the water, but who invested the reinforced garrison 
as closely as ever. Outram had not yet heard of Sir Colin 
Campbell’s approach, and thanks to Lawrence’s providence 
there were still provisions for a month. An English paper, 
smuggled in by a servant, proclaimed the interest and sym- 
pathy of England, and the starting of large bodies of troops 
overland. 

Two or three days in hospital, where a round shot killed a 
man sitting on his bed, and several of duty of most active de- 
scription, followed, and Philip saw and heard nothing of the 
comrade of his late adventures. He contrived to send out a 
note for Jessie, concealed in a quill, saying that he was alive 
and well, and then one evening when he had an hour to spare, 
he made his way to the Maynards’ quarters, telling himself 
that, little as conventionalities could be observed by people 
whose scanty leisure was spent in dodging round shots and 
musket balls, it was absolutely incumbent on him to ask how 
Miss Maynard fared after her adventurous journey. 

He found a quiet circle of ladies in shabby clothes, sitting 
in a veranda to breathe a little air in the comparative lull 
of the iron tempest, which usually occurred after sunset. 
Faded, haggard, and languid these ladies were ; one wore a bit 
of crape at her neck, the nearest approach to widow’s weeds 
that she could procure ; one was hushing a young fretful 
baby. This lady received him very cordially, and thanked him 


liSf THE HEART OF THE STORM. 129 

for bis care of lier sister-in-law, while Captain Maynard took 
the young child and looked at it with a wistful tenderness. 

“ This little chap began life boldly,” he observed, petting 
the tiniest of arms. 

“ He ought to grow into a distinguished soldier,” Philip re- 
plied, glancing with a sort of awed pity at the frail creature, 
who had chosen such a perilous time for his first entrance 
upon the world’s stage, and doubting if he would grow into 
anything. 

Then he heard the low clear voice which had of late become 
so familiar, though not less thrilling to him, and almost feared 
to look up to the face he had seen in such varied aspects when 
Ada came on to the veranda. 

“I am so glad to see you,” she said. “I was afraid you 
would not have time to come. You were in hospital ; I was so 
sorry. I hear you have been on duty, I hope not too soon.” 

The young widow’s eyes clouded when she saw Philip rise 
from the block of wood he was sitting on to shake his former 
comrade’s hand ; she had heard the story of their wandering 
with a sort of tender envy, and the expression Ada’s appearance 
brought to Philip’s face gave him a momentary resemblance 
to her own soldier slain during the siege. It happened that 
Philip was clad in a shabby, stained uniform that she recog- 
nized too well ; she had refused to sell it, but placed it at the 
disposal of any officer who might need it. 

Ada had now recovered her natural hue, and though unsuit- 
ably clad in a rich colored silk gown given her by a lady who 
lived in the Residency, and therefore had all her wardrobe 
with her when the flight thither took place, she made a grace- 
ful and feminine figure in the dim light. Her dark hair was 
coiled about her head like that of a Greek statue, lier eyes 
were bright with pleasant welcome ; she carried a sleeping 
child in her arms, a wasted, ailing creature, yet no light burden, 
being at least three years old. 

“ Ada,” her sister-in-law said, “ can’t you put Willie to bed 
now ? He has been in your arms the whole long day. He 
will wear you out.” 

“ The moment I lay him down he cries,” she replied, 
gathering him closer in her arms ; “ he is so good, lie lets me 
work and wash the china and do all sorts of things ! ” 

Philip wondered what “ all sorts of things ” might mean ; 
without asking he took the child from her, and quickly 
hushed the feeble moan it made on being moved ; then lie 
learnt that its mother was too weak to tend it, and trusted it 
entirely to Ada. 

9 


130 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Just then a slight sibilant noise, followed by a crack, was 
heard, and a small object bounded from the chair on which 
Miss Maynard was sitting and struck her on the side. 

“ Spent, fortunately,” she said, with a slight start, while a 
small leaden ball rolled harmlessly to the ground, whence 
Philip took it as a souvenir. 

“The chair is none the worse,” Captain Maynard said, 
tranquilly examining it ; “it was evidently a chance shot.” 

Philip^ whose low seat was one of those wooden blocks fired 
from mortars at a high elevation into the garrison, keenly re- 
alized the brief and precarious tenure on which they all held 
their lives ; was it worth while to think of the future in the 
near face of death ? Why not snatch a little joy from these 
fleeting moments of peril ? Therefore he looked into Ada’s 
deep eyes, and listened to the music of her voice, while the 
young widow watched them with a sorrowful sympathy, and 
enjoyed a brief hour of Paradise. 

When he returned to his post he felt very low, and fell to 
regretting that he had no tidings of Jessie ; he would give the 
world for a home letter. And tired as he was by the long 
day’s duty, and weakened by poor food and hardships, he did 
not sleep that night, but lay looking through the darkness at a 
face which seemed to reproach him, the face that of all faces 
had looked most kindly upon him all his life, the lined, worn 
face of Matthew Meade, and remembered that good man’s 
constant and surpassing love and kindness, and the perfect 
trust he had seen in his dying eyes. 

In the meantime the guns boomed on ; a ball might at any 
moment crash into his room, ending all responsibility. 

His visit was repeated once or twice before the position was 
evacuated a few weeks later, in November, when Ada was one 
of the crowd of ladies who took shelter in his regiment’s 
quarters, while a passage was being cleared for their carriages 
on their way to the Dilkoosha Palace. The child was still in 
her arms ; she bogged a little milk for it, and Philip was hap- 
py and proud to be able to furnish some. 

A few days later, when the sick and wounded and women 
and children were conveyed to Allahabad, he was one of their 
escort, and thus saw her frequently during the fortnight’s slow 
and difficult march, which was necessarily one of great hard- 
ship. A great crowd of sick and feeble people and their neces- 
sary baggage in bullock wagons and palanquins, with camels, 
elephants, pedestrians, and vehicles all mixed up together in 
the hot sun and stifling dust, involved much suffering and un- 
speakable confusion. With scanty and hastily organized com- 


II y the heart of the storm. 


131 


missariat, the Maynards were frequently without food or tents 
for the night ; and, like others, were dependent upon the some- 
times lawless proceedings of male friends. 

“ Brother Bassamjee,” Ada said one night, when after long 
and weary waiting at their encampment he brought them some 
loaves filched from a commissariat wagon, “ if you were in 
merry England I strongly suspect you would see more of the 
inside of a prison than you liked.” 

“Well, I begged this milk for Willie,” he replied, produc- 
ing some. 

“ After all,” Ada said, when she had thanked him, “ it is only 
a long picnic, but Mrs. Maynard won’t see it in that light.” 

“ It would be more amusing,” poor Mrs. Maynard observed, 
“if we could be quite sure the enemy would not attack us.” 

Philip was more than sorry when this novel picnic came to 
an end, and the Lucknow people were safely packed in trains 
to Allahabad. Both Ada and Mrs. Maynard said a tearful 
farewell, but Ada smiled through her tears. 

“ What can it matter ? ” he said to himself in the march back 
to the Alumbagh, “ I shall never see her again, whether I go 
through the campaign or not.” 

And when he reached the camp and found several home 
letters, he almost trembled at the prospect of opening them. 

The time moved heavily on that winter in spite of the con- 
stant peril and excitement culminating in the final capture of 
Lucknow in March ; Jessie’s strange discontent and constant 
desire to leave the neighborhood of Cleeve and obtain some 
employment, expressed in the letters which reached him fit- 
fully, seemed to him, in face of the grim realities of his own 
life, but as the murmurs of a spoilt child, wanting something 
and knowing not what. 

“ Dear little Jessie ! I will do all I can to make her happy 
when the campaign is over,” he used to say on reading her 
letters. 


CHAPTER IV. 


IN ARCADIA. 

Marwell Rectory was a comfortable little country house 
which assumed a pleasant coquettish pretence of being a cot- 
tage. It wore a rustic crown of neat clean thatch, the pro- 
jecting eaves of which threw the rain well off the stone walls 
and sheltered them from the frost ; the latticed bay windows 
and the picturesque porch were roofed with this same neat 
thatch ; the twinkling windows, gabled roofs, and twisted 
chimneys were so clasped, smothered, and twined about with 
creeping greenery and richness of blossom that they seemed 
to emerge from all the bloom only by a strong and continu- 
ous effort. 

Just now in the heart of summer, a Gloire de Dijon, a red- 
hearted cabbage-rose, and a pink-flushed bunch rose threw 
their blooming sprays all over and among its myrtles and 
honeysuckles, so that people on the gravel drive in front liter- 
ally walked upon rose-leaves as the petals floated down on 
the summer air faster than they could be swept up by the 
strictest of gardeners. 

And the head-gardener, the Adam of this paradise, was not 
strict ; he even liked what more professional gardeners term 
a litter, especially when sweet as this. He, that is, Mr. Ingle- 
by, was standing on this sunny afternoon beneath a broad- 
armed linden-tree, which was sweet with bee-haunted blos- 
som, with his black straw hat tilted over his face — a handsome 
face with kind blue eyes and clean-shaven mouth of benig- 
nant curve, framed by blue-black hair of graceful wave and 
blue-black whiskers of fashionable cut — with a heath broom 
in his hand and a heap of short mown grass at his feet. Rut 
instead of sweeping, he was looking dreamily over the cottage 
in the foreground at the sweep of park land spreading away 
to the blue hills, and the village to the left backed by pas- 
tures, farmstead, and corn-land, and ending in a distant prom- 
ise of shining sea. 

A lady in a broad garden-hat, about his own age, which 


IXT THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


133 


was some thirty odd summers — and these odd summers are 
often very oddly reckoned by her sex — a plain likeness of 
himself, was tying up some carnations, not without a critical 
glance at the idle rector, who she observed, though he had 
taken off his coat, looked, in his white tie and white shirt- 
sleeves with stainless cuffs, as spick and span as if prepared to 
walk down Piccadilly on a fine May afternoon. 

“ Do you hold that broom for effect or with some distant 
hope of making use of it, William?” she asked in her sharp, 
staccato way. 

“For a little of both, Susie,” he replied, with his sweet 
smile. “ I fancy the broom conveys some faint idea that I 
might be useful, which enhances my other charms, and I am 
not entirely without some hope of getting the lawn swept in 
the course of time.” 

“ What you want is a good strict wife, with a tongue like 
Mrs. Plummer’s,” grumbled Miss Ingleby. 

“ What I lack but don’t need, my dear,” he returned. 
“ Besides, while I enjoy the privilege of your conversation, 
can I hope for anything sharper ? ” 

“ Or more acid ? ” she added, laughing. “ Just fancy, the 
Medways call us honey and vinegar.” 

“Good for sore throats. Raspberry vinegar would be 
better, Sue. There’s a little tartness in both of us. Miss 
Lonsdale is our sponsor, if I am not mistaken. Poor girl ! ” 

“Poor indeed ! Why she is as rich as Midas.” 

“ And as miserable. And the reeds tell little whispering 
tales of her. Midas has nothing to do and gets into mischief. 
Midas is a coquette, and the Nemesis of coquettes has over- 
taken her.” 

“What in the world is that ?” interrupted Miss Ingleby, 
with a look of stony amazement. “ Surely the man is 
cracked,” she added aside to the carnations. 

“ To fall in love with the man she can’t have.” 

“ You, I suppose. But pity is akin to love. When did she 
tell you ? Is it a confessional secret ? ” 

“ I think I see the fair Clara in a country vicarage.” 

“ Well ! so you might have done last Easter, if you’d been 
at home when she called.” 

“ Wasting her sweetness upon a desert parson ” 

“ Say a deserted parson.” 

“ In* my mind’s eye, Susanna,” he continued, with imper- 
turbable sweetness ; “ but I wish to goodness she had let that 
nice little Jessie Meade alone.” 

“Stuff! She can’t flirt with Jessie. Nothing can be bet- 


134 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


ter for the girl than to have the entr'ee of a house like Marwell 
Court. Clara Lonsdale will form her manner and give her 
the chic the little rustic could never have developed at her 
boarding-school.’ ’ 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” said Mr. Ingleby, with fervor. “ But 
Jessie is too true a lady to be spoilt by Miss Lonsdale.” 

“ Now saints pity me,” murmured Miss Ingleby aside, “ for 
this man is evidently on the road to Bedlam. The Meades’ 
daughter and the Plummers’ cousin, born in a mill, brought 
up at a missish boarding-school, and finished at Bedwoods 
Farm ! ” 

“ Nature said of Jessie at her birth, ‘ I will make a lady of 
mine own.’ ” 

“ The man is raving ! ” 

“ Meade was ungrammatical, but not ungentle. There were 
no people at Cleeve I liked so much and found so congenial 
as the Meades. Bear old people ! ” 

“ And it is thus that the pet curate of Cleeve slights his old 
parishioners en masse ! ” 

“ Whatever Phil Randal’s origin may be, he has the making 
of a gentleman in him.” 

“ Wasn’t he the son of a drunken Old Clo’ man ! ” 

“I saw a good deal of the lad at one time. Impulsive, 
good-hearted, tender-mouthed ; needed a light hand ; a tight 
curb made him kick. I believe I am responsible for his be- 
ing in the army. The advice I gave Matthew Meade on the 
subject is one of the few things I never repented of. If you 
come to think of it, Sue, it isn’t a bad thing to rise by pure 
merit from a private to captain, in an army where promotion 
is purchased, and influence is necessary to advancement.” 

“It was a clever stroke of yours, Will. Especially your 
prevision of the Crimea and the Mutiny,” she commented 
with a meek air. 

“ I’ll sell you to a Turkish Bashaw, Miss, if you don’t take 
some of the edge off that tongue of yours,” he replied with a 
more radiant smile than ever, as he began to apply his broom 
to the long-neglected sward. “ Phil Randal is a good fellow, 
let me tell you, and a fine soldier ; and I wish to goodness his 
charming little sweetheart had been left alone by the Mar- 
well Court people. It is enough to spoil even her. The girl 
is in an entirely false position there. They make use of her 
as a sort of nurse to that poor little sick Ethel, whose fretful- 
ness wears everybody else out. Miss Lonsdale treats her as 
something between a lap-dog and a slave. She meets fast 
men there ; why even Claude ” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 135 

“Poor Claude, the most harmless and good-hearted of 
human beings. He can’t help being an Apollo, disguised as 
a hussar.” 

“ Dear me,” returned Mr. Ingleby, resting on his broom 
and smiling sweetly upon his sister with his sunny blue eyes. 
“An Apollo! So that is the feminine notion of* an Apollo? 
In what respect does he resemble that elegant and accom- 
plished god ? I never heard of his writing verses or even 
holding forth at public dinners.” 

“ Why, in his beauty to be sure.” 

“Beauty! Do you really think Medway beautiful, Sue?” 
he asked benignantly, regarding his sister’s labors ; “ what 
odd taste women have ! Claude Medway ! He is not de- 
formed, certainly, liis legs are straight, so is his back. I be- 
lieve that his nose is properly fixed on, and he doesn’t squint, 
but to call that great hulking fellow beautiful! It is the 
tailoring, my dear, the tailoring of Bond Street. 

“ ‘With his cruel dart did Cupid nail her, 

The shaft was winged by a Bond Street tailor ! ’ 

My first impromptu, Sue, and your epitaph ; not bad, is it?” 

“ And then people talk of women’s jealousy ! ” observed 
Miss Ingleby, dropping into a rustic seat, and fanning her- 
self with her hat. “ There’s something I like in that young- 
fellow, William. It is beautiful to see him with Ethel. When 
I called the other day, Jessie -was reading aloud to her, and 
Claude was sitting by her couch, handing eau de Cologne, 
arranging pillows, drawing blinds up and down according to 
her whims. It was one of Ethel’s fractious days. The nurse 
had been twice reduced to tears. Sir Arthur confided to me 
that he would gladly give a j-ear of his life to give Ethel 
one hour’s ease, but that she had ordered him out of her 
room in irritation, and he had sent for Jessie as a last re- 
source. And then to see that handsome, distinguished look- 
ing man, who is expected to do nothing but enjoy himself, 
pent up in a close darkened room, humoring all that peevish 
child’s whims and ill-temper, and waiting on her like the 
tenderest nurse.” 

“ Most affecting,” added Mr. Ingleby, “ a healthy young 
man sacrificing an hour’s idleness to a sick sister! And Jessie 
was reading aloud, was she ? Dear me !” 

Mr. Ingleby repeated this exclamation with a preoccupied 
air, and applied himself with great energy to the broom for a 
few seconds. 


136 


IJST THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ I wonder what brings Medway here at this time of year. 
Sue,” he added, relapsing into idleness again. 

“The train probably, and his own sweet will. I can’t 
imagine, William, what you have against that poor young 
man.” 

“ Why nothing, he’s a very good sort of fellow, but it isn’t 
well for a man of his stamp to be kicking his heels about in 
this quiet place with nothing to keep him out of mischief. 
And it is a pity for Jessie to be constantly meeting him.” 

“Really, William, one would think poor Captain Medway 
was a vulgar Don Juan to hear you.” 

“Nonsense, Sue. He's all right,” returned Mr. Ingleby, 
coloring, “ but, you see — when a man is young and rich and 
well-born, and in a crack cavalry regiment, though he may be 
ever such a good fellow — well ! a hussar is a hussar and not a 
practised exponent of ethics — look here, why don’t you have 
Jessie Meade here of tener ; and make a companion of her ? 
Ask her to tea.” 

“ She’s asked for to-night,” replied Miss Ingleby, gazing 
with a quietly ironical expression upon her brother’s face. 
“ As it is your cricket night, I thought it a good opportunity. 
I know how strongly you disapprove of bachelor society for 
her. Why, there she is,” she exclaimed, catching sight of a 
light summer dress fluttering among the shrubs by the gate, 
and rising to meet Jessie with a cordial smile. 

Mr. Ingleby put on his coat and followed his sister, think- 
ing, not without satisfaction, that the cricket was postponed, 
and that all bachelor society was not baneful to Jessie. 

Jessie always felt at home in that house ; she liked the 
Inglebys, none the less because Mr. Ingleby had been accus- 
tomed to drop in at Stillbrooke Mill for a chat and sometimes 
a pipe, which it had been her proud office as a child to fill. 
She came smiling up the drive with a sort of wild-rose grace, 
with her hair’gleaming fitfully as the sunshine and leaf-shadows 
changed upon it. She was, as usual, very simply dressed, 
without ornament, yet the lines of her figure were so subtly 
graceful, and her bearing had so modest a dignity, that her 
plain, fresh, well-fitting dress had an elegant distinction far 
beyond that of fashion and richness of fabric. 

She carried a small basket containing a gift from Cousin 
Jane’s dairy and garden, a common basket, about which as 
she came along she had entwined some sprays of wild-rose so 
as to make it a beautiful object. 

“ What an artist you are, child ! ” Miss Ingleby said, tak- 
ing the basket ; “ you can touch nothing without making it 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 137 

beautiful. Come in and sit in the cool, you have had a broil- 
ing walk.” 

Jessie was not sorry to find herself in a low chair in the 
pretty little drawing-room, which looked upon the lawn and 
the blue distance beyond, and Miss Ingleby derived a half 
spiteful amusement from seeing her brother follow them to 
that feminine retreat and supply Jessie’s lack of adornment 
by a cluster of rose-buds, which repeated the delicate tinting 
of her face, and were plucked from his favorite Devoniensis 
tree. 

“ If a young woman can look more charming than as God 
made her, Jessie, it is when wearing rosebuds,” he said on 
presenting them. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Ingleby,” she replied, with a child’s simple 
pleasure, as she rose to arrange the flowers before a glass. 

“ And this before my very eyes ! ” reflected Miss Ingleby. 
“ No wonder he is afraid of cavalry officers if middle-aged 
parsons go on like this.” 

“ I really must break myself of calling you Jessie,” he 
added, sitting before her with his arms on the back of his 
chair, and contemplating the effect of his roses with profound 
admiration, “I never can remember that you are grown up 
and engaged.” 

“ I hope you never will,” she replied, with the faint blush 
any allusion to her engagement now always called forth ; “ it is 
so pleasant to hear you say Jessie ; it makes me feel young 
again, and reminds me of home.” 

Her voice quivered a little at the last word, and there was 
a responsive tremor in Mr. Ingleby ’s kind face. He laid his 
hand gently on her shoulder as he passed her on leaving the 
room. “Poor child,” he said, “you are still new to trouble, 
and you don’t even know how young you are. Take care oi 
her, Sue, and pet her as much as you can.” 

“He evidently thinks little of my petting powers, Jessie,” 
commented his sister when he was gone. “ Truly I never met 
such a man as my brother. There is not a child in this 
parish that he does not spoil. I am obliged to be a very 
dragon to make up for his deficiencies.” 

“Don’t be a dragon to me, dear Miss Ingleby,” said Jessie, 
drawing her chair to her side and taking her hand in the 
caressing way that no one, not even Miss Ingleby, could 
resist, “ I like to be spoilt.” 

“I dare say you do, miss,” was her inward reflection, “an 
artful young puss ! Take care that you are not really spoilt, 
my dear,” she added, aloud ; “ such a pretty face as yours 


138 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


often proves a dangerous gift ; it leads people, especially 
men, stupid creatures, to value you far beyond your merits. ” 

“But I can’t help being jDretty,” she replied, with total 
absence of vanity, “ and I really don’t think I am — very — at 
least not prettier than most girls.” 

Miss Ingleby looked at her with a searching directness 
that would have put most people out of countenance. “If 
you are not very deep, my lady,” she thought, “ you are cer- 
tainly the most refreshing young person I ever met.” 
“ Well,” she replied, seeing that Jessie did not blench, “ per- 
haps you are not so very good looking after all. But, as you 
say, most young girls are pretty enough to attract nonsensi- 
cal admiration, especially from men, who are all absolute fools 
with regard to our sex, and will insist upon thinking women 
made on purpose to be looked at. If that had been the pur- 
pose of the Almighty, my dear, he would have made us all 
handsome.” 

“ Of course. And men would not have been made more 
beautiful than woman,” was the reply which astounded Miss 
Ingleby, who had only recently taken an interest in Jessie, 
though she had known her slightly for the last three years, 
during which her brother had been rector of Marwell. 

The latter, no longer distracted by his sister’s conversation, 
applied himself diligently to his broom, and had just finished 
sweeping his lawn and heaping the short math in a barrow 
when, to his surprise, Captain Medway appeared within the 
gate, an infrequent visitor, and lie went forward to receive 
him with a dazed look which was not unperceived by Captain 
Medway. 

“Iam fortunate in finding you at home,” the latter said, 
“ though my visit is to Miss Ingleby, for whom I have an 
errand from my sister.” 

Mr. Ingleby hoped that the invalid was better, apparently 
not hearing that Captain Medway wished to see the mistress 
of the house. 

“Better,” he replied with a sort of impatient catch in his 
breath. “Oh, yes, better, I suppose.” 

Mr. Ingleby looked gravely, steadily at the young man’s 
troubled face, while uttering some commonplaces about 
time, hope, and patience, which he knew to be futile. He 
had seen that expression upon so many faces when visiting 
the sick, and he had produced those futile commonplaces so 
often, because they seemed to mean more than hopeless 
silence. Medway’s voice and face said “she will never be 
better,” and they implied a pained self-reproach of which the 


iiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


139 


rector had the key ; for it was while in her brother’s charge 
that Ethel Medway had received the injury which darkened 
her youth. 

“ Not without heart,” he reflected. 

“I wanted to see you about the cricket club,” Captain 
Medway continued, in his usual voice. “ I shall be knocking 
about here for a few weeks. I suppose your eleven is made 
up, but if I can be of any use ” 

“I do want someone to show them what bowling means,” 
Mr. Ingleby quickly interrupted, plunging headlong into the 
subject, on which he was eager as a school boy, having, as 
Captain Medway knew, a profound conviction that cricket 
was the basis of all manly virtue, if not of every Christian 
grace, and conceiving it to be hopeless to try to improve the 
morals and manners of the village youths until he had 
imbued them with a love and knowledge of that national 
game. 

They walked up and down beneath the trees for a good 
ten minutes, discussing and arranging, Mr. Ingleby happily 
oblivious of everything but the grand pastime which was to 
soften the hearts and purify the souls of the Manvell youth 
until he was brought face to face with unwelcome facts by 
his guest’s sudden question if Miss Ingleby were at home. 
He would have replied that she was engaged, had not the 
drawing-room window furnished a full-length portrait of his 
sister reclining in a low chair talking to Jessie, who was 
invisible from without. Some mad notion of carrying Jessie 
off into safe hiding crossed his mind and was dismissed before 
he reluctantly admitted the wolf into the very presence of the 
pet lamb, who appeared no whit dismayed or surprised at 
the invasion. 

Miss Ingleby had been watching her young guest with an 
interest on which her brother’s recent observation had put a 
keen edge. Jessie’s remarkable beauty struck her more for- 
cibly than it had done before, perhaps because her attention 
was turned to it, and the idea that beauty of such distinction 
amounted to a misfortune in a girl so strangely situated en- 
tered her mind. 

Jessie was a little pale, which was natural after her hot 
walk, but the graceful languor of her attitude in the low chair 
she had taken betokened something more than physical wear- 
iness ; there was, to a keen observer, a subdued passion in it 
and in the half- wearied, half-strained set of her features, but, 
sharp as Miss Ingleby was, she could not see far below that 
wonderful combination of mask and mirror, a human face. 


140 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


She was a little startled by the sudden radiance which 
transfigured the young girl’s face in the midst of their quiet 
chat, an electric flash, which gave depth and fire to her eyes 
and made her form and features instinct with spiritual life. 
A deathly pallor succeeded this lightning brilliance ; Jessie 
moved, as if uneasy from bodily pain, her heart beat in thick 
pulsations so that she pressed her hand a moment to her side, 
her movement apparently gave her relief, her color returned 
in rich purity, she spoke with animation and held herself 
almost proudly, all her beauty seemed aglow with some 
spiritual fire as she glanced through the open window, past 
Miss Ingleby, whose face was turned to her. 

Surely, Miss Ingleby thought, the number of broods Cou- 
sin Jane’s hens had hatched that spring was not a question 
calculated to make a girl’s heart beat too fast and her color 
come and go in that remarkable way; and what was there in 
the announcement that twenty-four cows were now in milk at 
Redwoods, and yielding so many pounds of butter a week to 
make her glow like a young Pythoness? Yet those were the 
unexciting topics under discussion, and there was nothing but 
the sunny green linden-tree before Jessie’s eyes — so Miss In- 
gleby thought, her own face being turned from the window. 

The strange fire was still in Jessie’s eyes when Mr. Ingleby 
brought in Captain Medway, whose visit, unaccustomed as it 
was, in nowise surprised Miss Ingleby, so naturally and grace- 
fully did he communicate his mission from his sister. 

Having explained his wants, lie turned and apparently be- 
came aware of Jessie’s presence for the first time. 

“ How do you do, Miss Meade ? ” he said, with the exact 
shade of surprise that unexpectedly meeting an indifferent 
person produces, expressed in his face. “I have just seen 
your cousin, he hopes to finish carting by sunset. People 
need not be very anxious about their hay to-day, Miss Ingle- 
by, need they ? ” 

“ People need be anxious about nothing, unless they are 
geese,” she returned ; “just as if anxiety could keep the rain 
from coming down.” 

“You are a philosopher,” he commented, with the charm- 
ing smile expressed more by the eyes than by any other feat- 
ure that few people could resist, much less Miss ingleby, who 
had now reached an age when young and fascinating men are 
regarded with maternal tenderness, and who openly avowed 
that she loved a chat with a fine, bright-eyed young fellow 
who had won his spurs in actual battle. 

Mr. Ingleby had narrowly watched the demeanor of both 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


141 


liis guests on their meeting, and the result of his scrutiny 
was eminently satisfactory. He asked Jessie to come to a 
table at the other end of the room that he might show her a 
portfolio of engravings, over which they chatted happily, 
while Captain Medway, taking a seat by Miss Ingleby, en- 
gaged her in a conversational tournament, in which, though 
he broke many a stout lance, he was of course vanquished. 

When tea was announced, Miss Ingleby supposed that Cap- 
tain Medway would not care to join them, and heard with 
surprise that he had a special devotion for the hybrid repast 
known as high tea, an evidence of simply domestic tastes 
and a guarantee of all human virtue which she often pro- 
duced subsequently in his favor. 

A party of four at table is perfect, and if the four people 
gathered round Miss Ingleby’s teapot that evening did not 
enjoy themselves in a quiet way, their faces belied them. 

Fowls may have been carved more scientifically than those 
| placed before Captain Medway, hosts may have been more 
genial than Mr. Ingleby, conversation may have been more 
brilliant, though not often more caustic, than that of Miss 
Ingleby, and young beauties may have been more bewitch- 
ing than Jessie, who sat facing Captain Medway with a quiet 
glow in her face like the glow in the heart of a blush-rose, 
for the most part silent, yet occasionally contributing an ap- 
propriate observation, and smiling with gentle self-contain- 
ment at the mirthful sallies between the brother and sister ; 
but no one present thought it possible to improve these 
things. Nor in the disposition of the four at table and 
afterward, did it appear strange to the Ingleby s that Cap- 
tain Medway and Miss Meade never once addressed each 
other, never that is, with one exception, when Mr. Ingleby 
having been called out of the room on some parish business, 

1 Miss Ingleby had, at Captain Medway’s request, played 
straight through the “ Waldenstein ” sonata, declining his offer 
to turn her leaves. Then, Jessie being in her old place com- 
manding a view of the lawn, Captain Medway stood near her, 
and during the allegro movement spoke to her in a low voice 
which she heard through all the storm of music. Jessie 
looked up and replied also in a low tone. 

No one could have heard what they were saying, or di- 
vined from their faces what the tenor of their words might 


be ; Jessie’s eyes w r ere very soft and her blush-rose face was 
expressive of a happy calm ; there was a subdued fire in Cap- 
tain Medway’s eyes and a suppressed excitement in the set 
of his features, even a faint quiver of the lip half concealed 


142 


IJV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


by the heavy mustache, which might mean a quick response 
to the passionate flow of the sonata Miss Ingleby was playing 
so well, or something else. 

The fiery music poured on, Jessie gazed out silently into 
the green heart of the linden with an intense consciousness 
of a living human soul near her, a soul whose wild pulsations 
were in some way mingled with hers; she was keenly aware 
of a magnetic gaze upon her averted face, keenly sensitive to 
the throbbing of that strong music so like the wild beating 
of a human heart ; she turned the opal ring round and round 
her slender finger as if working some occult charm by the 
movement, till she could bear it no longer, and with a sud- 
den slight turn of the head met the clouded fire of Med- 
way’s gaze, which fell before hers. Then he spoke again, 
Jessie replied tranquilly, and he turned away with a slight 
frown; the quick movement ended and Miss Ingleby paused 
a moment before beginning the beautiful long-drawn chords 
of the adagio, when she found Captain Medway by her side 
murmuring some words of appreciation that she was too ab- 
sorbed in her music to heed. 


CHAPTER Y. 


Jessie’s confessor. 

“ Been to tea at the parson’s ! ” exclaimed Jimmy Medway 
with a prolonged stare of astonishment at the unmoved face 
of his elder brother. “ Well, I am ” 

“I had no idea that Ingleby was such a good fellow,” his 
brother said, tranquilly. “ I wish I bad looked him up before.” 

“ What was there to do, Claude ? ” Lady Gertrude asked, 
from the depths of her chair, with her usual air of unwilling 
interest. 

“Nothing. There lay the charm. Miss Ingleby is a crack 
pianist and can talk. One listens. Ingleby is keen on 
cricket, wants me to set the village boys on to play — one 
must, I suppose.” 

“ Certainly,” Sir Arthur added, looking up from his Morn- 
ing Post, “ that kind of thing is expected of one. And the 
Inglebys are very good people. You may rely upon it that I 
should never give the living to a man whom I could not see 
at my table with pleasure.” 

“ But, Claude, just fancy Claude going to tea with the 
parson,” continued Jimmy, who was sixteen and looked up to 
liis eldest brother as a prince of fast men. 

“I ahvays said,” murmured Lady Gertrude, suppressing a 
yawn, “ that Claude would develop into a model squire in 
time. He will soon be au fait in top-dressings and short- 
horns — excited by turnips and depressed by cattle disease. 
You know the kind of man — stout and beefy.” 

“ There is no knowing to what heights w T e may reach by 
dint of energy and lofty aspiration,” replied Claude, looking 
before him with a curious little smile, “ even Jim, now, Jim 
might become a bishop — or a judge. Come, Jim, you are 
the last, and one of us ought to be in the Church.” 

All of a sudden a light seemed to flash upon Jim and he 
began to chuckle quietly to himself. 

“Is Jessie Meade a crack piano player?” he asked, de- 
murely, “ or is she keen on cricket ? ” 


144 


IN TIIE HEART OF TEE STORM . 


Claude looked up with an angry frown that only half sub- 
dued Jim, who had passed Jessie at the rectory gate that 
afternoon. 

“ Jessie Meade, what about Jessie Meade ? ” asked Sir 
Arthur, who had lost the thread of the conversation in his 
paper. 

“ A very quiet well-conducted young person,” Lady Ger- 
trude remarked, “ I really think her quite a godsend for poor 
dear Ethel.” 

“I don’t know what poor Miss Meade has done to be 
called a young person,” exclaimed Claude with sudden heat. 

“ Claude is right, my lad 4 y,” said his father, “it is veiy 
dreadful to be called a person, especially a young person un- 
less one is a young person.” 

“ But what on earth is Jessie Meade ? ” cried Jim. “ Isn’t a 
rough farmer’s daughter a young person ? ” 

“No, Jim,” replied Sir Arthur, “Miss Meade, though a mil- 
ler’s daughter, is not a mere young person. She has every 
qualification for ascending the social scale. Beauty such as 
that young lady’s is a distinction in itself, even without such 
a manner as hers.” 

“ Surely, sir,” objected Jim, “ a woman takes her father’s 
rank?” 

“ Her husband’s,” interrupted Claude. 

“ And Miss Meade is as good as married to a gentleman,” 
added Sir Arthur. 

“ Oh ! an officer and a gentleman ! I daresay ! But Ban- 
dal is only a ranker,” Jim urged. 

“He is a gentleman by birth,” his father replied, with em- 
phasis, and as he spoke he caught Claude’s eye on him with a 
look of surprise and caution. 

“ Oh, I thought he was a foundling, brought up by some 
farmer, and rose from the ranks,” returned Jim ; “ well, he is 
engaged to a confoundedly good-looking girl, that’s all.” 

“ After all, what is birth to a woman? ” Claude added with 
a sententiousness that highly amused his mother, “rank 
and name descend by the male side. The son of a duke’s 
daughter may be only Mr. Smith.” 

“ Mr. Smith with a difference, a duke’s grandson,” Sir Arthur 
interjected. 

“ Still plain Smith, or Smith-S Wellington at most, sir. But 
as you said, beauty and manner are the only needful things for 
a woman, her name and rank come from her husband.” 

Sir Arthur was not sufficiently interested in the question to 
point out that this was not precisely the purport of his words, 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


145 


“ Did I say so ? ” he returned with a gentle smile, retiring into 
the seclusion of his Morning Host. 

“ I hope you will go to no more tea parties, Claude,” his 
mother said, plaintively, “ they make you ponderous. I wish 
Clara would come, one does get so bored at Marwell. Didn’t 
somebody say something about having a letter from her, by 
the way ? ” 

“I heard from her to-day, here is the letter,” Claude re- 
plied, “ you don’t care to read it, mother? Well, it’s all about 
nothing. Stupid dinner parties, very slow balls. Garden 
party at Chiswick, royalties gracious and boring. Love to 
Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Arthur, weather melting, season over, 
nothing more.” 

“I believe,” Claude reflected when he was alone, “that the 
governor is half in love with her himself. Who could have 
fancied him solemnly giving out that her beauty was distinc- 
tion, of admiring the manner of a girl so born ? But who 
could imagine that I — Ah ! Jessie ! What princess ever moved 
with so sweet a dignity ? Philip Randal, indeed ! A clown by 
her ! By Jove, I’ve lost my head. That I should live to be so 
hard hit ! It seemed so easy at first. The old story, rustic 
beauty, vanity, ignorance of life, and so on. I wonder if any 
man knows how great a fool he can make of himself for a 
woman’s sake. I never thought there were such women. If 
my mother had been such a woman — or Clara, or if I had had 
such a sister — I might have been a better fellow ; I might at 
least — Heaven only knows — ” A hard, heavy sigh, almost a 
groan, broke from him ; his face settled into a frowning rigidity, 
his eyes darkened, his mouth lost its genial curve. He turned 
to the open window, gazing over the star-lit summer night. 

“I must lay my parallels with caution,” he thought, a slight 
smile twitching his lips. “ How in the world can I keep Clara 
in town? If she brings her heavy artillery to bear upon me, 
what is the good of all these gradual saps and well-laid trains ? 
Why won’t she marry Bardexter and help me to marry Jessie. I 
know she would like to be a duchess. She winds the gov- 
ernor round her finger and my mother sees with her eyes. She 
is clever. Her knowledge of life is extensive and peculiar.” 

“I am so utterly alone,” Jessie mused as she passed along 
in the sunny morning, through the fields next day “and so 
absolutely helpless. I cannot be sure of what is right. I can 
only try to do what I think is right — if they would but let 
me ! if I could see Philip face to face I might make him un- 
derstand, poor boy ; but he is so far away and letters are so 
10 


146 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


different. He thinks himself so wise about me — in his man’s 
arrogance. He— a man — is a human being ; I — a woman 
— am a sort of weak attempt at one. If a man could once 
look into a woman’s heart how surprised he would be.” 

She had reached the edge of a hay field which was divided 
from the next by a tiny wooded gorge, at the bottom of 
which gurgled and rippled a bright brown thread of a stream 
crossed by a wooden foot-bridge. She descended the slope 
with easy light-foot grace, and pausing at the bridge and lean- 
ing against the slight hand-rail looked down, arrested by the 
fascination of flowing water, into the brown, shallow stream, 
dappled by leaf shadows and sunlight. 

She had not waited long before she heard a firm, quick step 
descending from the opposite field, and looked up into the 
handsome, good-tempered face of Mr. Ingleby, at which her 
own brightened, and she said, with a pretty eagerness, as he 
approached her : 

“I am so glad, Mr. Ingleby. I hope you are not in a 
hurry, I was on my way to see you.” 

“ Hurry ! My dear Jess- — Miss Meade, is anybody or any- 
thing ever in a hurry in the country ? Look at this lazy, loi- 
tering stream ; it seems as if it would never get to the sea.” 

“ But it will,” replied Jessie, looking thoughtfully down 
into it, “ it keeps on, you see, it does the best it can.” 

“ ‘ Books in the running brooks.’ What little sermon are 
you extracting from the water, Miss Meade?” 

She looked up with a smile, and he noticed the strained 
serious set of her face, the faint blue shadows beneath her 
eyes, the general fatigued aspect which emphasized both her 
youth and her beauty. 

“I have so few friends,” she said, “and such confidence in 
you. And I wanted ” 

“You were going to consult me?” he added, gently. “I 
only hope I shall prove worthy of the trust. And if I am too 
stupid, perhaps my sister ” 

“ No,” returned Jessie, “ I don’t think Miss Ingleby would 
understand. Oh ! Mr. Ingleby,” she added, “ it is so hard to 
know what to do — so very hard ” 

“I should have thought, my dear child,” he replied 
gravely, “that your life was marked out so clearly before you 
that you had no need to consider that question.” 

“ That is the trouble of it. Others mark out my life for 
me ; lam not a free agent. I am obliged to do what I know 
to be wrong.” 

“Surely not. No one who has charge of you would wish 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


147 


you to do what you know to be wrong,” he replied, with gentle 
rebuke. “ I know them all, Jessie, they are all upright, true 
people. Have you spoken to them? But of course you 
would do so before turning to a comparative stranger like 
myself.” 

“ Yes,” she replied with a wearied air, “ I have spoken to 
them, each and all. They all treat me as a child, a n irre- 
sponsible being. Philip forgets what a difference nearly two 
years makes in a girl : besides, he has been through such 
stirring scenes that he can scarcely be expected to give much 
thought to my small concerns — my life is not in perpetual 
peril, you see.” 

“ She is going to break with that poor fellow,” Mr. Ingle- 
by thought. “ Hard lines for Philip ; but what could he ex- 
pect of such a babe ? And yet she cannot have asked to be 
set free. No man would bind a girl against her will.” 

“Jessie,” he said aloud, “we can none of us take our lives 
in our hands and say we will do this and that with them. 
Our lines are cast for us, often before we are born : human 
beings are so linked and intertwined by ties of kinship, duty, 
and mutual service that no man can say I wall go this way re- 
gardless of others — how much less a woman ! ” 

“ How much less indeed ! ” she broke out with a bitterness 
wdiich startled him, “ we wonder at Turks who keep their 
women in cages, and at Chinese who deliberately cripple 
them, but Englishmen are quite as bad ; though they do leave 
their bodies comparatively free, they cage and cripple their 
souls.” 

“Tell me all about it,” he said, after a brief pause of as- 
tonishment, “ let us rest upon this felled timber in the shade 
and not excite ourselves, and you shall tell me, if you can or 
will, all about this caging and crippling, what you wish to do 
and what your good friends think of it. I am an old friend ; 
I knew you as a very little girl — a good little girl though 
spoilt. I am the parson of the parish, and an old man in 
comparison with you. I ought to know more of life and its 
duties than Miss Jessie Meade, and few things would give 
me greater pleasure than to do her service.” 

“ Yes,” replied Jessie, as she took the place he indicated on 
the prostrate tree-trunk in the wood shadow, and speaking 
with a seriousness that rather took him aback, “ it is not like 
speakiug to a young man ; if people are not wise at your age 
they never will be.” Mr. Ingleby ruefully passed his hand 
over his crisp black hair, wondering if he had suddenly turned 
gray and if crow’s feet had gathered round his eyes since the 


148 


IJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


morning. “ Wisdom and gray hairs,” he muttered, seating 
himself at her side. 

“And yet,” she pursued, “you are but a man after all.” 

“ True ; I was never taken for a demi-god, to my knowl- 
edge. or a bear, even in youth.” 

“Mr. Ingleby,” she continued, raising her serious, sweet 
eyes searcliingly to his, “ is not idleness a sin ? Then why 
must I live in idleness? I have talents. Ought I to bury 
them in a napkin ? ” 

“ Good gracious, I hope she isn’t stage-struck,” he thought. 
“ You need never be idle,” he replied, with books, your needle, 
your pencil, and household tasks ; all these things will prepare 
you for your approaching marriage. My sister will tell you 
better than I can what a busy, useful life you may lead. 

“The old story,” returned Jessie, sadly. “No one wants 
my needle or my pencil at Redwoods. There are no books, 
no means of improving one’s self. As to household tasks, my 
cousin has not enough for herself ; if she had she could have 
extra maids. I cannot live at Redwoods ; I am fretting my- 
self away there and doing no one any good — ah, perhaps — 
perhaps I am doing harm — at least to myself.” 

So she spoke, unfolding her plans to him, her wish to sup- 
port herself by some suitable occupation, or at least add so 
much to her very slender income, which she sadly feared, as 
she confessed, was partly made up by Philip, as would enable 
her to procure first-class instruction, particularly in painting, 
for which, she was assured, she had talent. Her marriage 
could not take place yet for some time. That marriage would 
place her in a position above that in which she was born ; she 
needed some education for it. She wished Mr. Ingleby to 
persuade her guardians that Redwoods was no place for her, 
and that it was only fitting for her to go out into the world iu 
some honest capacity. To teach in a good school for instance, 
and receive lessons at the same time. “You know, Mr. In- 
gleby,” she said in conclusion, “that people always get into 
mischief if they have nothing to do.” 

“And I know that people never need be idle unless they 
choose,” he returned, “especially women. What have you to 
do with art — the only great artists are men — or learning ? 
Your duty, Jessie, is to be a wife and mother.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Jessie, with a little impatient, scornful turn 
of her head, for she was sick of the wife and mother cant, “is 
it absolutely necessary for wives and mothers to be idle and 
dunces ? Men are not told to loaf about in idleness because 


ii r the heart of the storm. 


149 


they are to be husbands and fathers some day. Philip was 
not kept from the war on that account.” 

Mr. Ingleby smiled indulgently, as one smiles at the mis- 
chief of a pretty pet kitten, and gently patted her hand. 
“ You shall have plenty to do,” he said, “ you know how glad 
I should be if you would teach in the Sunday School. Then 
I want to start a lending library, and a host of parish things 
in which help like yours would be half the battle. If you 
like I will suggest to your cousin that you should help in the 
household work and have more drawing lessons as well.” 

“Thank you,” she replied, with an air so faultlessly in- 
expressive that he could not detect the sarcasm, “you mean 
well.” 

She sat with her hands, on one of which Mr. Ingleby had 
laid his own caressingly, clasped on her knee, looking before 
her at the brown flowing stream, in a sort of hopeless silence 
for some moments, revolving things in her mind, and won- 
deriug if she dared trust him with the truth, and if, even in 
that case, he w r ould help her to what she knew to be her only 
safe course. He, in the meantime, was thinking seriously of 
her, and pondering what the key to her discontent might be. 
How account for the fatigued, worn look in the sweet young 
face ? Had he not seen her only the night before at his own 
table, as happy, and pleasant, and unconscious of self as any 
well-conditioned young girl could hope to be ? And those 
irrational fears of his respecting the danger of her fre- 
quent contact with Claude Medway had all been laid to rest. 
There was neither coquetry nor vanity in Jessie ; it was evi- 
dent that she and Medway were able to meet, however fre- 
quently, on such distant terms as excluded any possibility of 
touching each other’s hearts ; her position was high enough 
to insure respect, and too low to admit of intimacy. But 
there was a depth of sorrowful meaning in Jessie’s face, and 
a gentle, patient endurance in the slightly drooping attitude 
that went to his heart. Redwoods must be, after all, a most 
uncongenial home for such a girl. Philip’s distance and dan- 
ger must be a heavy sorrow. And then Mrs. Plummer’s 
tongue ! Philip had been alluded to in a manner which in- 
dicated that he was not held the most faultless of lovers ; 
perhaps there was some lovers’ quarrel hard to bear at such a 
distance, and by the girl who was left behind. There was an 
evident desire to leave Redwoods at the bottom of it all, a 
desire due, perhaps, partly to the restlessness of a long en- 
gagement. Perhaps it was only a temporary rebellion against 
circumstances, brought on by a fit of temper, an unsatisfac- 


150 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


tory letter from India, Cousin Jane’s tongue, or some sudden 
disgust at the men Plummer’s rough ways, mingled with the 
discontent of a spoiled child. But the look in Jessie’s face 
touched him deeply, reason as he would, during the long si- 
lence in which he studied it ; a silence emphasized by the 
murmur of the stream upon its mossy stones, the gentle sigh 
of the summer wind through the leafy boughs, the twitter 
and persistent chirp of chaffinch and starling, the hum of 
insects, and the rustle of small creatures among dead leaves 
and twigs. They were so quiet that a butterfly poised on a 
beech-spray almost touching Jessie’s head, and a bee hummed 
about a spike of wood-betony which rustled against her 
skirts. 

She was trying to gather resolution to tell all. “Dare I 
say that I want to flee temptation ? ” she asked herself again 
and again, and the pathos of her face deepened under Mr. 
Ingleby ’s kind and questioning gaze, until it suddenly over- 
came him. 

“Poor child,” he exclaimed, almost before he knew that he 
was speaking. 

There was such a concentrated tendeimess and compassion 
in his voice, that Jessie’s overwrought feelings reached a cli- 
max, and she burst into tears. She was about to tell him all, 
when the sound of a heavy iron step on the wooden foot- 
bridge made her start, while Mr. Ingleby, with a sudden, 
half-guilty air, sprang to his feet, dropping her hand, when 
he caught the full, indignant, sullen gaze of Koger Plummer’s 
eyes, and crimsoned beneath it. 

The bridge was a stone’s throw from the fallen trunk, 
which was partly screened from it by hazel bushes, and 
Roger, with a savage touch of his hat, and final scowl, was 
out of sight again in a moment, leaving Jessie uneasy and 
half-abashed, she knew not why. 

Mr. Ingleby did not again take her hand or suffer his voice 
to betray too fully the tender compassion he felt for the 
lonely, lovely child he had seen grow toward womanhood. 
He stood before her with a grave air, and preached her a nice 
little sermon on the sin of discontent, to which she listened 
with becoming meekness, though not without a little reproach 
in her large pathetic gaze. He recommended her some devo- 
tional and other reading, and chalked out various duties for 
her, and bid her come oftener to the rectory and take counsel 
of his sister. 

“I know,” he said in conclusion, “ that your position is a 
very trying one, but heaven will reward you as you bear it 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


151 


patiently. Be of good clieer, Jessie, India will soon he 
tranquil, and you and Philip will be united and live happy 
ever after, like a story book. But, I am sadly afraid that 
your connection with Marwell Court has done you harm. 
Forgive my plain speech if I say that Miss Lonsdale is not a 
fit friend for you. Such friendships produce heart-burnings 
and mortifications, and engender discontent, though you may 
not be able to trace the feeling. Go less to the Court.” 

She had turned very red during this exhortation ; she was 
very white as she replied : 

“ How can I give up the Court while I am at Redwoods ? 
It would be cruel to desert Miss Medway when I am near and 
have no other duties.” 

“ The whim will pass with her ; don’t make yourself indis- 
pensable there,” he repeated, utterly blind to the real danger. 
“ Go less frequently.” 

“ You may be sure, Mr. Ingleby, that I shall not go there 
more frequently than I can help,” she replied, with despairing 
emphasis as they parted, and she went home with her secret 
gtill locked in her breast. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE PICTURE GALLERY. 

To Philip, Mr. Cheeseman, and Mrs. Plummer, Jessie had 
appealed in vain for permission to fare forth into a world of 
honorable toil. But Mr. Ingleby was a man of finer sensi- 
bilities, and of wider and fuller knowledge of life than either 
of her guardians ; she had thought he would understand what 
she dared not put into words, and what she scarcely acknowl- 
edged even to her own heart, until that sudden rush of feel- 
ing in the Inglebys’ drawing-room frightened her. Finding 
that she must remain at Redwoods, she decided to make the 
best of it, and was even half ashamed of her own cowardice 
in trying to flee the temptation that she knew she ought to 
resist. Was she so poor a creature, that she could not 
conquer a passing and unlawful fancy? surely not. Philip 
acknowledged that he was horribly frightened at Alma, but 
he did not run away, neither would she. She thought of 
Philip’s favorite lines : 

“ Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 

And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.’* 

She followed Mr. Ingleby’s counsels, and listened to vol- 
umes of good advice from his sister, who took her in hand as 
desired, and petted and scolded her with zest ; she became 
a Sunday School teacher, and spent many hot Sunday after- 
noons in turmoil, dust, and noise, before a row of stolid, mis- 
chievous urchins ; vainly trying to explain to them things she 
did not understand herself, and to keep her temper under 
maddening provocation, until the day, mis-called “of rest,’’ 
became the most exhausting and unpleasant of the seven. 

Miss Ingleby liked her brother to tease her about her grand 
flirtation with Claude Medway, and she did not hesitate to 
say that his visits, and the quips and sallies which passed be- 
tween them, made her feel at least six years younger. 

“ Nice goings on in your old age, Miss Sue ! And then poor 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM . 


153 


Sally is scolded for having a soldier sweetheart, a quiet fellow 
in the line. Pray when am I to ask the captain his inten- 
tions? I have no doubt the whole parish is ringing with the 
affair. Well ! I hope you will remember your poor relations. 
I ought at least to get a deanery.” 

“ A pretty dean you would make ! Yery Reverend, indeed ! 
Rather Reverend would overstate the case.” 

“I was always fond of a cathedral town, and with a good 
library and historic buildings near me, could almost fancy 
myself learned. I wonder if anybody knows what deans are 
expected to do ” 

“ Die, and make way for others.” 

“ Then the cathedral music ! By the way, how I wish I had 
your hussar’s voice in Harwell choir ! Roger Plummer’s bass 
is of the most exasperating quality for a merely human voice, 
one can fancy fiends, if fiends ever sing, possessed of such 
voices. So strong, too, it dominates the whole choir. Jessie’s 
sweet little pipe scarcely atones for it. By the way, Sue, it 
was rather too much of a good thing to call out the military 
to cut up the children’s cake for you.” 

“I didn’t. I had set Jessie to cut it in the school house. 
Captain Medway happened to be passing by and just looked 
in. When he saw poor little Jessie slaving away at the slabs 
of cake with a great carving-knife, the good-natured fellow 
quietly took the knife out of her hands. Jessie made no 
demur, but abdicated her post with her little princess air. I 
believe that if the Prince of Wales were to rush headlong to 
pick up her handkerchief, she would accept it as a natural and 
proper attention. Unless heredity is humbug, that child is 
the changeling and not Philip Randal.” 

“She is a dear, good, little soul ; and she doesn’t hack ex- 
pensive plum cake about and waste it, as if it were Russians 
or Sepoys.” 

“ No, not a stroke more work did I get out of her that 
night. Finding slaves ready to do her work, she immediate- 
ly went home with some cock and bull story about helping 
Cousin Jane pick fruit.” 

“ Sensible girl ; she knew that three is an awkward number 
when one is beau sabreur. Of course you heard of Randal s 
wound. I told her I thought he might manage to get him- 
self invalided home. She said he would not wish it ; he 
seems to be a regular fire-eater.” 

“ Well, they can wait, they are young enough.” 

“ But Jessie’s position is so peculiar, Sue.” 

“Peculiarly pleasant, I should think. Happily engaged, 


154 


JA r THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


young and pretty, with no cares, petted by everybody, even 
middle-aged parsons. What can the girl want more ? ” 

About a week after Jessie’s confession by the stream a 
message came from Ethel Medway entreating her to come up 
and spend the day with her. Everybody was out, even the 
nurse wanted the afternoon ; it was too rainy for Ethel to 
venture out of doors. So in half an hour’s time Jessie was 
standing by Ethel’s couch, a fresh and hope-inspiring vision, 
with rain-drops sparkling upon her bright hair ; and her 
color heightened by the damp, soft air ; ready to do anything 
to while away the tedium of the sick girl, for whom she had 
a tenderness. The pale, pinched* face brightened at the sight 
of her, and Ethel raised her arms and drew Jessie down to 
kiss her, the latter submitting to the caress with the princess 
air Miss Ingleby had observed. 

“ Everybody is so cross and disagreeable this morning,” 
she said, in a querulous tone, “ I suppose the rain spoils 
their tempers. Do you feel cross, Jessie ? ” 

“ Not in the least, dear Miss Medway,” she replied, with a 
gentle smile ; “ it is a treat to come and see you.” 

She soon chased away the gloom and peevishness, and in a 
few minutes had her patient in a wheel-chair traversing the 
North Gallery, in which there were a few good pictures, 
among many family portraits and others of mediocre worth. 
To Jessie it was the picture gallery, and a source of great in- 
spiration, since she had seen no other, and it was a real 
pleasure, as she said, to linger through it and hear all that 
Ethel could tell her about the pictures. Indeed Marwell 
Court, really a fine building full of artistic and interesting 
things, was the most interesting place Jessie had ever seen, 
though she had discovered that refined and beautiful sur- 
roundings do not make people perfect. 

At the end of the long gallery was a large, deep bay win- 
dow, and in this, at Jessie’s suggestion, luncheon was served 
on a large oak table. Here, besides the long vista of the 
gallery, they had an extensive view of the park with its 
beautifully grouped oaks and beeches, so that they seemed 
to be in the moist, green world outside, being protected and 
divided from the rain-swathed park only by the window-panes. 

“It is like a picnic in the rain,” they said, and the time, in- 
stead of dragging by with leaden weight, flew, and the rare 
sound of Ethel’s voice echoed through the gallery. 

It fell pleasantly upon the ear of someone approaching the 
bay window unseen, by a side corridor, so pleasantly, that he 
paused a moment to listen to the girls’ mirth. Jessie was 


J2V THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


155 


showing some Indian toys and knick-knacks that she had just 
received from Philip ; she had thrown a richly colored silken 
sari around her, and was playing with an ivory cup and ball, 
laughing and making little jests with the happy abandonment 
of a child ; while Ethel hung upon every word and gesture of 
her entertainer like a little kitten enjoying the gambols of an 
older “kit.” 

It seemed such a pity to interrupt this innocent pastime, 
that the new-comer, whose footfall was unheard upon the 
thick, soft carpeting, slipped behind the heavy curtain of the 
deep window, and watched it. 

The silken sari glided gradually from the slim figure as 
its poise altered with Jessie’s efforts to catch the ball, until it 
lay at her feet and she paused, flushed and radiant, with one 
bright braid of hair loose on her shoulder, to hand the cup to 
Ethel, that she might essay her skill. Then turning aside to 
arrange her disordered hair in the mirror formed by a glazed 
picture near the curtain, she uttered a little startled cry. 

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t like to spoil your game,” 
Captain Medway said, coming forward, and bending over 
Ethel, holding a bouquet of white moss-roses to her face, his 
foot catching in the sari as he did so. 

Jessie, after the first crimson of wide-eyed surprise, became 
very pale, and hastily adjusting her hair and dress, stood 
apart. How like the brother and sister were, and how very 
patient and gentle the former was with the slight, maimed 
creature, to whom he was so devoted. 

He was not too graciously received ; his sister poutingly 
reminded him that he was supposed to be absent for the day. 
It was true that he went off with the others, he replied, but he 
could not bear her to be all alone on that dismal day, and 
she so low and depressed ; and see, he had brought her the 
rare white roses she was longing for, and gone almost on 
purpose for them, ridden home ten miles in the rain and mud 
for them ; was he not a good brother? 

“No,” was the ungracious response, she and Jessie had 
been perfectly happy together, she wanted no one else ; and 
then began a catalogue of Jessie’s virtues, which the latter 
interrupted by making an attempt to go. But Ethel dissolved 
in tears at the very thought, and assured her that she had 
promised to stay and have tea. 

“It would be*a pity to spoil a good action by curtailing it,” 
Claude said in a tone that implied a sort of resigned reproach ; 
and Jessie saw that she could not go' away without making a 
fuss over nothing. 


156 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“Besides,” Ethel added, “you have not read me Captain 
Randal’s Lucknow letter as you promised.” 

Jessie hesitated, but the word “Lucknow” was a cue that 
Captain Medway did not fail to seize. Everybody had a right 
to be interested in Lucknow. 

“Oh, but that was all in the papers long ago,” Jessie ob- 
jected ; “this is stale news, the letter was delayed, and it is 
only Captain Randal’s personal experience, which might, I 
thought, interest Miss Medway.” 

“ Only ! Lucky fellow !” he exclaimed, and she found that 
she must read the letter. 

Would a girl under any circumstances read a love-letter, 
he asked himself, while attentively studying her movements, 
and pulling his lovely bouquet to pieces at his sister’s de- 
sire. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Jessie, looking about and searching 
among the toys scattered on the table ; “where is the letter? 
Oh ! here it is at last ! ” and she picked a large foreign-looking 
packet from the floor, where it had fallen entangled in the 
sweeping sari. 

Captain Medway smiled behind his roses ; it was not thus, 
he had been led to believe, that lovers’ letters were usually 
treated, tossed about and mislaid. 

“ Let me see,” she continued, opening it. “Dear Jessie — 
I was very glad to find your letter — yes — Cousin Jane — hum. 
Abraham. I beg your pardon, Miss Medway. Oh ! here is 
the interesting part at last ! — Sir Colin is a fine old fellow, we 
learnt his value in the Crimea ” 

“ That we did,” commented Captain Medway, who had 
carefully noted the significance, or rather, insignificance, of 
the little staccato quotations. 

“It is very badly written,” Jessie interpolated, laughingly ; 
“ but I have read it aloud twice already, and know it pretty 
well. It is understood that I am to save him the trouble of 
writing to others in this way.” 

“I think,” said Ethel, when they drew breath after the 
final capture of Lucknow, “ that it must be rather unpleasant 
to have to read one’s love letters aloud.” 

Jessie laughed without embarrassment, Claude appeared to 
be interested in a little mechanical puzzle which lay on the 
table. “Oh! Miss Medway,” she replied ; “they are not love- 
letters. You see, we are not like other people — ” here she 
broke off and colored, as Claude looked up. She would have 
turned the subject, feeling that she had already said more 
than was becoming of her own concerns, but that something 


IlST THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


157 


in that swift, electric glance was like a challenge and aroused 
her. “We are more like married people,” she continued, 
with gravity ; “ but why should I weary you with my affairs, 
Miss Medway ? ** 

“ Oh, I like to hear, please go on,” was the inevitable girlish 
rejoinder. 

“ We were brought up together like brother and sister,” 
she continued ; “we were not like people who find each other 
out bit by bit, and are unread romances to each other.” 

“ Then how did you become engaged ? ” asked Ethel. 

“ My parents had always wished it, and when my dear 
father was dying he joined our hands ; and that,” she added, 
looking up after a long, breathless pause and meeting Claude 
Medway’s dilated gaze with a sort of defiance, “makes it so 
very solemn and binding.” 

“ I don’t think so,” returned Ethel, disgusted at the w r ant 
of romantic interest in the narrative ;• “ people ought to fall 
in love and be proposed to, and refuse a little at first just to 
bring the other one on, before they are married. If papa 
told me to marry anybody I should instantly hate him, and 
run away with somebody else. Why, people never fall in love 
with the people they are told to, do they Claude ? ” 

“Not such naughty girls as you,” he replied, touched by 
the thought that there could be none of these youthful ex- 
periences for that poor child, and willing to turn a subject 
which had become embarrassing to Jessie ; “ we shall know 
how to deal with you when an ineligible makes his appear- 
ance, just order you to have him, Miss Wilful.” 

He knew when the father died, he knew when Philip w r ent 
out to India, he knew Jessie’s age, the whole story was clear 
to him, and particularly her intention in proclaiming the 
special solemnity of her engagement ; his eyes grew softly 
brilliant, a smile played over his face, which seemed instinct 
with triumph and happiness; even Ethel wondered at the 
unusual beauty of her handsome brother. 

Jessie was thankful for the timely interruption of tea. She 
had lived among simple, out spoken people, and was herself 
of a noble simplicity of thought and speech, but she had the 
instinctive lady’s dower of reticence, and shrank from the 
publicity she had thought it necessary to give to her relations 
with Philip. “ So very solemn and binding,” she repeated to 
herself while busy with the tea-cups. She lived in thought 
again in that death-bed scene, felt the clasp of the tremulous, 
dying hands tighten and then slacken upon hers and Philip’s ; 
as her father’s hands grew cold and nerveless, she remembered 


158 


JiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Philip’s grasp growing warmer and firmer, and she felfc her- 
self pass from the keeping of one to that of the other. 

There was a solemn, prayerful look on her face, that gave a 
deeper charm to her beauty, when she handed Captain Med- 
way his tea, avoiding his gaze ; a feeling of victorious strength 
lifted her above the thrill which the chance touching of their 
fingers sent through them. 

The rain gradually ceased, and a flood of blinding glory 
poured in through the bay window at the other end of the 
gallery, and streamed slantly through the long gallery, touch- 
ing them with a softened radiance as it reached them. The 
upper portion of the window was filled with stained glass, 
chiefly showing armorial bearings, the Medway quartering^ 
shed rays of gules, or, and azure upon Jessie’s dress and moved 
upon her hands. Outside, the park was a living emerald of 
sun-steeped verdure, birds were singing in the fragrance of 
the rain-awakened earth, all seemed pure, beautiful, and joy- 
ous within and without in the lovely summer evening. Joy 
so pure as well as deep had never before been Claude’s, the 
memory of his past life and especially his first thoughts of 
Jessie, whose beauty and purity had so changed and elevated 
him, filled him with remorse ; what did he not owe to that 
gentle and gracious creature who had discovered his soul to 
him, and who would give him a life of purest happiness? The 
precious moments flew while he sat in Elysium alone with the 
two beings most dear to him, watching Jessie’s tender ways 
with Ethel and the girl’s affectionate though selfish clinging 
to her ; it seemed that a deeper tenderness came into Jessie’s 
voice and eyes when she spoke to Ethel, the thrilling thought 
came to him that she must love her, as indeed she did with a 
pure love made up of pity and an association of which perhaps 
she was unconscious. 

Sitting there in the beautiful evening glory, beneath his 
own ancestral roof, looking upon the fine full-leaved trees 
glowing in the fresh sunshine, listening to the pure tones of 
Jessie’s voice and entranced by her youthful and touching 
beauty, lie wondered at himself. What different pleasures 
and interests would now be his in the simple yet full and dig- 
nified life he would hereafter lead. How stale and unprofit- 
able all previous pleasures and dissipation seemed ; there were 
incidents in his life for which he blushed for the first time ; 
present associates the thought of which filled him with dis- 
gust. All that poets said of love was true. He thought w r itli 
a sort of self-pity how little pure human affection there had 
been in his lot till now. It was with the selfish love of the 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


159 


utterly helpless that Ethel clung to him, another sister had 
died in childhood, leaving a sorrowful memory ; Lady Ger- 
trude had fondled him over much in infancy, and when he 
ceased to be a baby, repulsed him. He might not throw his 
arms around her neck because he rumpled her hair ; he must 
not come too near, she didn’t like boys treading on her dress 
and pulling her about, their hands were never clean. And 
when he grew up, a curled darling, an ornamental as well as 
useful social appendage, he knew too well what value to put 
upon his mother’s appreciation of him. There was instinctive 
affection between himself and his father and brothers, but no 
tenderness. Yet but a month or so since he would have 
laughed at the idea that he needed tenderness ; married bliss 
was a thing to smile at ; conjugal virtue, though respectable, 
a thing too rare, at least on the one side, to enter seriously into 
an estimate of life. 

Once Jessie caught his rapt gaze as he thought these thoughts, 
and it flashed upon her that he had a look of Philip, something 
less than the moulding of a feature, something more than a pass- 
ing expression. She glanced from him to a picture on the wall 
of a young cavalier with plumed hat and flowing curls, who 
had fallen in the Civil War. He turned, following her gaze. 

“You are interested in Sir Philip?” he asked ; “you often 
look at him.” 

“ He reminds me a little of my broth — of Captain Randal,” 
she replied. 

“It is curious ; but we have thought so, too.” 

“But he is considered much more like you, Claude,” Ethel 
added ; “ my brother was dressed as Sir Philip for a fancy 
ball, Jessie.” 

After tea Jessie read aloud from the grand romance which 
has set so many hearts beating and charmed so many minds 
in such different ages; those who first dreamed it are dust, 
and so are those who earliest felt its glamour ; all the succes- 
sive moulders and compilers have been ashes for centuries, 
and yet to-day its charm is fresh and irresistible as ever. 

Ethel soon slept, lulled by the sweet voice. 

The golden glory, wdth its crown of armorial jewels, fell full 
upon Jessie, sitting sidewise close to the sleeping girl ; it fell 
upon Claude, who was facing her on the other side of his sis- 
ter, on an antique, cross-legged oaken seat, his head slightly 
bowed against the hand which shaded his eyes, his elbow rest- 
ing on his knee, in a negligent attitude, suited to a suppliant 
or courtier. But shadowed as his eyes were, there was no 
mistaking his look ; and he was so absorbed that he did not 


160 * Iisr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


perceive the approach of an onlooker, whose light footsteps 
were unheard on the thick-piled carpet. 

The new-comer stood and silently studied the scene ; the 
sleeping girl, the reader and the listener, her face was touched 
with scorn and fear, hatred and love, she was breathless and 
motionless ; while Jessie, conscious of Claude’s furtively 
adoring gaze and fearing to pause or lift her eyes lest she 
should meet it, read in a thrilling voice, “And there is no 
knight living that ought to give unto God so great thanks as 
ye ; for he hath given unto you beauty, seemliness, and great 
strength, above all other knights ” 

“How very appropriate !” broke in the new-comer, with 
clear and cutting emphasis, and Jessie, looking up, saw 
Clara Lonsdale standing dark against the flood of dazzling 
light, with a curling lip, and a fire of dark passion in her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER VII. 


CONFIDENCES. 

Claude, thrown off his balance for the moment, uttered a 
faint exclamation, then he rose and turned to receive his 
cousin with a grave smile. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, offering his 
hand, which she did not take. “ Have you only just arrived ? ” 

“I ought to apologize,” she replied, with infinite scorn, 
“ for breaking in upon so delightful a moment. But I was 
told you were alone with your sister.” 

He met her gaze with a level direct glance that was like 
the cutting of a sword. 

It was but a moment, during which the long sunbeams 
slanted away, leaving that part of the gallery in chill gray- 
ness, before Miss Lonsdale turned with the faintest droop of 
the eyelids, and Captain Medway’s features lost their stern 
rigidity in something like a grim satisfaction. 

Jessie’s only memory of that scene was the glance 
Clara had thrown upon her, after those few words between 
the cousins, a glance of blended fear, hatred, and scorn, and 
of the emotion in Claude’s face. 

She understood too well what it all meant ; one of the white 
moss-roses was in her dress ; he had handed it to her at his 
sister’s desire ; she took it out when she reached home, and 
looked at it long. She carried it into the kitchen, where a 
wood-fire was burning low on the hearth, and placing it in 
the heart of the red embers, watched till it was consumed. 
It seemed like killing a child. 

There Sarah found her drooping some minutes after when 
the dusk was falling. 

A few days after Miss Lonsdale’s unexpected arrival, Jessie 
received a note, bidding her come to the Court, an honor 
which she declined, upon which Clara appeared at Redwoods. 
Jessie was in the garden gathering fruit for those endless 
pots of jam which Cousin Jane delighted to make, and thither 
Miss Lonsdale penetrated without invitation, to Jessie’s se- 
cret indignation. 

11 


162 


nr the heart of the storm. 


“ Miss Meade/’ she said, “ will you have the goodness to 
walk through the plantations with me ? I cannot tell you my 
errand here.” 

She could say “ will you have the goodness ? ” so as to con- 
vey the impression of “ you will refuse on your peril ; ” the 
fascination which she had exercised upon Jessie, lessened 
though it was since she had discovered that Clara Lonsdale 
was not only capricious but rude, had always contained an 
element of fear, and between this fear and the tenderness 
she still felt for the lonely woman, she yielded and followed 
her. 

“Jessie,” Miss Lonsdale said when they had crossed the 
intervening fields and reached the plantation, “you know 
that you have been dear to me, that I. have treated you as a 
friend.” 

“You have been very kind,” she replied, “and I shall 
always be grateful. But you are tired of me, and have often 
been both unkind and rude of late. I was a toy to amuse 
you when you were dull, and now that the paint has worn 
off me ■” 

“Nonsense, why, if tired of you, have I taken all this • 
trouble to see you? Come, sit on these faggots and talk 
rationally. You expect too much. You ought to know that 
I have your best interests at heart,” she said, drawing the 
slender figure caressingly toward her. 

Jessie took a seat as desired, and after various allusions 
which she declined to understand, Clara said, with more 
plainness, “Lords of Burleigh are all very well in poetry, 
but in real life they simply don’t exist.” 

“Probably not; one does not expect everyday life to be 
a poem,” Jessie replied, with quiet indifference, as she rose. 
“And now, dear Miss Lonsdale, I must really say good- 
by ” 

“Nonsense, child, sit down,” Clara returned, a flash of 
green light coming to her eyes as she detained her with no 
gentle hand. “ You either do not or will not see your danger. 
As you say, it was I who brought you to that house and I 
should indeed be grieved if harm came to you there.” 

“ Pray don’t distress yourself,” she said, with burning cheeks, 
“no harm has ever come to me at Marwell. Why should it? 
No one in that house but yourself has ever shown me any- 
thing but kindness ” 

“ Kindness ! ” echoed Clara in an accent that burned into 
Jessie like corrosive acid, “kindness from a man like Claude 
Medway to a girl like you ! Why, he is one of the fastest men 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


163 


of his set ! Jessie, such men have no mercy on girls in your 
position. We who live in the world know these things.” 

“ Then I am sorry for you,” cried Jessie, rising once more 
and drawing her shawl round her; “ and I am sorry if such 
things are true. And I do not believe any ill of the gentle- 
man to whom you allude. And it is not of the smallest conse- 
quence whether I do or not. He has never said a word to me 
that the whole world might not hear. I must really go ; it is 
late.” 

“I hate her,” Clara said, stopping at the plantation fence, 
on her homeward way, resting her arm upon the rail while 
she looked with a sightless glance over the beautiful Marwell 
woods. “ I think I never hated any one so much. I hate 
her beauty, her intelligence, her graceful ways. What right 
have such as she to graceful ways, ensnaring men’s hearts ? 
But he has said nothing ; thank Heaven for that, oh, thank 
Heaven ! That girl cannot lie. Her face cannot lie. And 
she loves him, the baby-faced fool. And Heaven only knows 
what folly a man so infatuated may commit. He might even 
marry her. She must be got away from this place. One of 
them must be removed.” 

Jessie believed no harm of Claude Medway, and was indig- 
nant at the aspersion cast upon him. To her he was a heroic, 
chivalrous figure, as different from the real Claude Medway 
as the latter was from the heartless rake Clara had suggested. 
To figure perfectly as a hero it is necessary to be slandered a 
little. 

Though he was not angelic, or even heroic, there were good 
thoughts in Claude Medway’s heart on the day of Clara’s ar- 
rival. These thoughts made him happy ; they gave him cour- 
age to do what he had long been nerving himself to do — make 
a confession, one that must come sooner or later, to his father. 

So the very next day Sir Arthur heard with tribulation and 
dismay, not the mournful words, “Father, I have sinned,” 
but those still more dreadful to some paternal ears, “ Father, 
I am in debt.” 

It was the first time that the offence had been of such mag- 
nitude, and with what Sir Arthur deemed so little excuse, for 
this was no debt incurred by indulging his own pleasures. 

“I must live quietly for some time,” he added, to his fath- 
er’s intense surprise, since he had never before manifested 
any such intention. “I must sell the hunters — a pity, too ; 
those two young ones at the trainers’ are turning out so well, 
no end of money in them. I don’t want to sell out if I can 
possibly pull through without.” 


164 


IN T1IE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Far better sell out than give up hunting. Do you sup- 
pose all these small squires and farmers will vote for a man 
who doesn’t hunt, or otherwise make himself pleasant and 
popular?” cried Sir Arthur. “Upon my soul, sir, this is 
pleasing intelligence, with my affairs in such a condition. 
At your age to put your name to bills for such a fellow. You 
must have known that he could never meet them.” 

“The poor beggar was so confoundedly hard up.” 

“ Beggar, indeed ! Such men are indeed beggars. They 
are always hard up. How can a man be otherwise if he lives 
at the rate of three thousand a year, when he has but three 
hundred.” 

Claude murmured something about expectations. 

“ Which he throws to the winds by marrying a barmaid 
and making his uncle cut him off with a shilling.” 

“Not a barmaid, sir, a governess, a lady by birth, a very 
pretty and charming girl ” 

“ Barmaid or governess, it is all the same ; the girl had not 
a penny,” cried Sir Arthur, with irritation ; “ neither beauty 
nor charm pay butcher’s bills, much less wine merchants and 
Bond Street tailors. “ What I cannftt conceive is that you 
should have done the thing twice,” continued Sir Arthur, 
indignantly. “A man may make a fool of himself once — but 
this second bill seems a deliberate act — a — upon my soul, 
Claude, it is too much.” 

“ Of course it was foolish, but, by George ! sir, I think you 
would have done the same,” he replied. “You see the poor 
devil was to be sold up and utterly done for, and his pretty 
wife came and cried to me, and — and brought her baby, and, 
— and — well ! what can a man do in such a case ? ” 

“I know what a soft-hearted fool can do,” he returned, half 
laughing ; “every time a pretty woman cries, or has a baby, I 
suppose my timber is to be cut down, and my land mort- 
gaged. I had hoped you would settle down and marry, and 
take your proper position in the county. And here I am with 
Jim to send to Oxford, and Jack’s commission to buy, and 
with Hugh vowing that an attache must live beyond his pres- 
ent allowance, and what with bad times, the state of the 
country, losses here and losses there — perhaps it is well that 
this place is not entailed like the Suffolk property, though I 
should be sorry to sell Marwell ” 

“ Sell Marwell ! ” cried Claude ; “ surely you cannot be seri- 
ous.” His last chance of breaking the subject of marrying 
Jessie was gone now. 

“I am sorry to say,” continued his father, “that I am in 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


165 


but too sad earnest ” — lie paused, and reflected awhile, and 
then in turn made his confession, one that, like his son, he 
had long brooded over, but feared to make ; a story of growing 
expenses and diminished income, of bad times, remitted rents 
and unfortunate investments, culminating in large purchase 
of shares in a phantom company, the promoters of which had 
recently vanished with the spoil. 

“ There is but one hope,” Sir Arthur said at the conclusion 
of this melancholy narrative, “ a most natural and pleasing 
hope, and one that I had expected you would yourself before 
this have realized, and that is your marriage.” 

“My marriage!” repeated the unfortunate young man 
while all the lovely aurora hues of his new and beautiful 
hopes faded away from the horizon of his life, “ my mar- 
riage ! ” 

“ You know your own affairs best,” Sir Arthur continued, 
“ but to me it seems that the thing has been too long about. 
No doubt there is a private understanding between you, it 
should now be made public. It is not fair to Clara, that 
sort of thing puts a woman in a false position ; it looks as if 
you were hanging back, which, of course, you cannot do, you 
have gone too far. She will make you a good wife, Claude ; 
she is a thorough woman of the world, and though not beau- 
tiful, has an air of distinction that is beyond beauty. It is 
true that she has had several rather serious flirtations, but 
through them all she has always been devoted to you. She 
has her peculiarities, but her heart is sound at the core, 
while her property ” 

He paused, and both men sighed deeply. 

A few days later urgent business called Captain Medway 
away from Marwell. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE COMET. 

“ Well, there ! Darned if this yer ain’t the rummest star 
I ever see ! ” cried Abraham Bush, staring at the sky one 
warm, still September evening. “ There’s a many queer 
things I’ve a seen. Zeen a whale and walked atop of en, terble 
slippy and squashy ’twas, to be sure.” 

“I ’lows I’ve seen some queerish things, Abram,” rejoined 
the carter, Jim Dore. “Zeen you and Sarow married, I did.” 

“ Go on ! ” growled Abraham, amid a chorus of chuckles 
from the little group of laborers gathered by the low stone 
garden wall to look at the wonderful portent in the sky. 
“ You’d get married fast enough, I’ll war’nt if so be as you 
could get ar a ooman to hev ye.” 

“ Didn’t take you no more than a matter of vifty year to 
get anybody to hae ye,” retorted Jim, scornfully. 

“ Abram give a power o’ thought to materimony avore he 
took to’t,” chimed in a second carter. “ Terble vine thing t’es 
to think about, ain’t it, Abram ? ” 

“Materimony,” returned Abraham, “is a deep thing. 
Terble deep, ’tis ; there’s a many inns and outs in materi- 
mony ; the more you think on’t the better vor ’ee, so long as 
you don’t do ’t.” 

“I ’lows ’tis what mankind is give to,” observed the second 
carter thoughtfully, “ let alone the women. There ain’t no 
putten a stop to ’t so long as there’s any o’ they left about. 
’Tain’t what I ever giv my mind to. So soon as I got a man’s 
wage I went to church long with Meary Ann, never thought 
nothin’ about it. Aye, I mind the day ; the apples was in 
bloom and wold Parson Stone’s cow died. Wold chap kep 
us waiting. ’Twas a pretty nigh too late when a come.” 
The second carter sighed, whether because the clergyman 
did not come too late he did not say. 

The spectacle they were gathered’ together to wonder at 
and discuss was, as Mrs. Plummer was then observing to her 
husband, “ enough to make the very cat talk.” Though the 
sun had sunk some degrees below the purple horizon the sky 


JtJST THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


16 ? 


was all aglow as if from some vast conflagration, and in the 
heart of this glow, the warmth of which could almost be felt, 
like that of the sun, sailed a majestic star, enveloped in and 
followed by a broad and fiery train. 

All the lined and furrowed faces were turned toward the 
glow, the general expression was anxious and bewildered, the 
eyes of one elderly man with down-drawn mouth and harsh 
features glittered with an unearthly light as he watched the 
sky. 

“ That there ’ll putt a end to marryen and aten and drink- 
en, mates,” he said. “Aye, the vlaame is a come, veeld of it, 
the hett of ’t, avore long the yearth ’ll ketch vire and the 
wicked be burned up like straa.” 

“Lord lov’ee, Simon Black,” exclaimed Sarah, “if you 
doan’t make my vlesh creep. It do get terble warm, to be 
sure, and the tail of ’n do get longer and longer. Whatever 
shall us do ? ” 

“ Don’t ye mind he, Sarow,” said Jim Dore, who was a man 
of cheerful views and broad features. “ Simon ain’t nothen 
but a Methody. They be always vor burnen of us up.” 

“ Methodys is too thirt over vur enjyment theirselves, so 
they cain’t abide to see other volks enjyen of theirselves,” 
continued Jim, “ they be all vur burnen of em up so as they 
med hae summat to groan vor. They wants everybody to 
groan like they.” 

Simon Black retorted something about the hard heart of 
unbelief, and compared himself to Noah. 

“ Noah never went to chapel, I’ll warn’t,” replied Jim, con- 
fidently. “ Reckon he went to church like a christened man 
and never groaned at everythink comfortable.” 

“’Tis a proper big vire,” interposed the second carter, dubi- 
ously, “and ’tis terble warm vor the time o’ year.” 

“ Some says ’tis trouble vor the nation,” Abraham inter- 
posed. 

“ Some says ’tis vamine and pest,” added Sarah, anxiously ; 
“ some says wars. ’Tis zent vor our zins, I lireckon.” 

So Cousin Jane, watching the glorious portent from anoth- 
er part of the garden with her husband and son, averred. 

“ I thought it would come to this, what with drinking and 
wastefulness,” she moaned. “Look at the wars and taxes 
we’ve had. I do wonder, Plummer, you don’t repent — that I 
do.” 

“ I do repent, missus,” he replied with an immovable face. 

“ There’s a many things I repent since the day you and me 
went to church together.” 


168 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“How you and Roger can go on smoke, smoke, in the very 
eyes of that comet, Heaven only knows,” she complained, 
finishing eating a large and luscious plum with evident relish. 

“ The comet isn’t only a star with a tail, mother,” replied 
Roger, “ and the Almighty made all the stars, so there can’t 
be any harm in it.” 

“ It isn’t likely Old Nick would be let put a tail of his own 
making on to the Almighty’s stars, to be sure,” added Mrs. 
Plummer. 

“I only hope it mayn’t mean harm to Jessie,” continued 
Mrs. Plummer, “ the girl’s properly weared away. Fretting 
for Philip, I expect.” 

“D’ye think it’s only fretting for Philip?” asked Roger, 
after a pause. 

“Why, whatever should the girl fret about if it isn’t 
that ? ” asked his mother. 

“She ought to be home by this time of night,” Roger 
added, after another pause. 

“ The time is no matter ; Mr. Ingleby always sees her 
home after dark,” said Mr. Plummer. 

“Mr. Ingleby!” repeated Roger, angrily ; “does Philip 
know Mr. Ingleby is always seeing her home ? ” 

“Why should Philip not know? ” his parents both asked in 
amazement, while Roger, with a few discontented grunts, let 
the subject drop, and fell again to silently ruminating upon 
the something winch he imagined to be upon Jessie’s mind, 
and the hints and whispers that had of late reached him con- 
cerning her. 

Mr. Ingleby did not see Jessie home that night ; she left 
the Rectory alone, soon after sunset. The unusual beauty 
of the warm, still evening soothed her, she trod the pleasant 
field paths with a lingering, listless step, listening to the 
chirp of grasshoppers, the drowsy drone of chaffers, and the 
low gurgle of hidden waters, listening and yet not heeding, 
her heart too crushed. The dusk air was warm and dewless, 
as it rarely is in England, the trees stood motionless, the fo- 
liage like carved bronze, the leaves were turning early this 
year, but in sheltered woods still wore their summer hues ; 
stubble fields glimmered with soft golden suggestions on 
sloping uplands beneath the clear bright sky ; it was pleas- 
ant to press the dry grass beneath the feet, pleasant to linger 
beneath the solemn wood-shadows, pleasant to gather the 
large ripe blackberries for which Jessie still had a childish 
liking, and picked from force of habit. All was pleasant, 
but not to her. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


169 


She went lingeringly through the plantation, where the 
shadows were dark and the way devious, until the path 
turned abruptly and brought her to a gate in the fences 
which parted woodland from meadow, and there, framed by 
over-arching tress, glowed the magnificent star with its trail- 
ing fiery tresses. She leaned upon the gate, thinking of the 
brilliant meteor which had flashed into the quiet heaven of her 
girlhood, filling all with troubled splendor and then vanished 
forever, as she was told this glorious thing would vanish in 
its strange parabolic curve, whether darting with irresistible 
impulse into the heart of some glowing sun, its tomb and 
home, or continuing unchecked upon its immeasurable path, 
thus vanishing and leaving no trace of its glory behind. Un- 
less indeed one of those silvery stars, drawn by the over- 
whelming attraction should leave its ordered path and be 
swept away into the flaming train, thus marring the accurate 
poise of some vast and complex system. Some astronomers 
thought this possible, she had heard at the Inglebys that 
afternoon. 

“ Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong,” she thought. 
She no longer wore Philip’s opal ring, she had written to 
offer him his release, telling him that his love was a broth- 
er’s, that she could not in conscience hold him to his forced 
hasty promise, and that their marriage would be against the 
spirit of their father’s dying request. She wrote this after 
the meeting in the picture gallery, since when she had not 
seen Claude Medway. 

She understood it all, the sudden disappearance after the 
sudden revelation, and though her heart ached and her life 
crept as wearily as a wounded thing, she knew it was right. 
Even without her warning that afternoon in the North Gal- 
lery, how should he stoop to such as she ? He had conquered 
his feelings, she honored him for doing so. 

In these days Jessie no longer wished to leave Redwoods, 
she had no motive at heart for anything. Her books inter- 
ested her no more, her brushes were put aside, her needle 
idle ; she spoke little and ate less, morning, noon, and night 
were the same to her, the mainspring of her life was broken. 

“ Wo ich ihn niclit liab, 

1st mil* das Grab — .” 

Even Roger’s blunt perceptions were sharpened by her spirit- 
less aspect, and the honest fellow went so far as to beg her 
to confide her troubles to him, but in vain. Yet she tried to 


170 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


shape herself for her fate, and at the sight of this unusual 
splendor in the sky made an effort to rouse herself from her 
brooding apathy. She fixed her thoughts on the perfect or- 
der and harmonious movements of those innumerable flocks 
of stars, and on the immutable laws followed even by that 
splendid wanderer glowing in the sky before her, hoping 
thus to strengthen her mind and uplift her drooping spirits. 
But the effort only brought slow and silent tears, which fell 
upon the wooden bar of the gate over which she leant un- 
til her reverie was broken by the quick crashing of brush- 
wood near, and a deep and penetrating voice at her ear said, 
“ Jessie !” 

Her fate was sealed. She turned with a little cry ; there 
flashed over her face a radiance that could not be mistaken, 
least of all by the man who loved her. 

“I could not bear it, Jessie,” he cried in a deep, moved 
voice. “I tried, Heaven knows how I tried, through all 
these weeks ! I could not forget you ; every day, every hour 
you are dearer. I cannot live without you. I am here. 
Take me. I loved you, even on that first day by - the 
lake. And the snake, you sweet, sweet child. I knew that 
you loved me long before you knew it yourself. I knew that 
you had never loved him. What should part us, Jessie ? Are 
we not one in the sight of Heaven ? ” 

What could innocent Jessie answer to these words, spoken 
with quick, strong heart-beats and eyes of fire, eloquent words 
but still more eloquent pauses, beneath the stars in the en- 
chanted woodland stillness? 

“ Why should we care what the world says ? ” he continued, 
in the same moved and moving tones. “ We are all in all to 
each other. Your sweetness is heaven to me, Jessie, and 
your beauty beyond all riches. Are you not my treasure, 
and my very own?” 

Homeless, friendless, heart-broken Jessie listened, and her 
soul passed from her keeping in the long kiss which fol- 
lowed, in the sight of the glowing comet in the quiet balmy 
evening. 

The night descended wholly, and folded round them like 
a mantle, and fresh and ever fresh stars looked out of the 
sky. Roger Plummer was just setting forth in search of his 
cousin, when a light wliite-robed figure flitted across the 
meadow, over the palely glimmering stubble fields, through 
the orchard and into the wide kitchen, the front door being- 
locked for the night. 

“Thank you, Roger, I found my way alone this lovely 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


171 


night,” slie replied to his anxious questions, “I stopped to 
look at the comet,” she said, going into the parlor, where the 
candles made two dim little islands of light in the gloom, and 
where no one noticed the change in her face. 

Claude remained by the plantation gate in the wood shad- 
ows till the light figure was lost in the shades beyond, watch- 
ing and thinking in a deep agitation, in which regret, awe, 
and exultation were mingled. 

“Heaven forgive me,” he murmured. Why do people ask 
forgiveness for what they fully intend to do? Is heaven so 
complaisant to sinners as to grant plenary indulgences in ad- 
vance? “ It must be gently broken,” he added. 

What was to be broken? Was it Jessie’s heart, her inno- 
cent, happy heart? 

She was glad to be alone in her fresh, white-draped cham- 
ber, alone with her unutterable happiness. Yet she felt very 
desolate in her vain longing for some one to share this great 
joy. She opened the case containing Philip’s simpering 
daguerreotype, glad that it resembled him ever so little. Only 
to tell Philip, whose sympathy rounded off and completed 
every pleasure ! But he was so far away. She looked earn- 
estly on the picture, thinking, thinking of Philip ; why should 
she not by some supreme effort of will bring herself before 
his mind? She had heard of such things. 

“Star to star vibrates light, may soul to soul 
Strike through a finer element of her own,” 

she thought, though not in those then unwritten words. 

As she gazed and gazed with strong yearning by her dim 
and solitary light, alone in her hushed white room, something 
thrilled her every fibre ; she trembled ; the portrait seemed to 
take life and meaning. The eyes flashed responsive to her 
own. She knew that he heard her, and pressed the picture 
to her face, frightened at her own daring ; in another moment 
she must have heard his voice, had her courage held out. 

She turned to the open lattice to seek companionship and 
reassurance in the stars. All without was hushed and calm, 
trees made a dark mass which concealed the comet, the air 
was rich with the almond scent of clematis from the porch 
below, and balmy with myrtle bloom, late flowering roses, 
stocks, and mignonette. There was no sound but the flutter 
of a solitary bird, and when the noise of wheels issued from 
the far distance, growing louder and dying away into still- 
ness again, she was glad. A bat flitted by the window, and a 


172 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


gray moth fluttered ghost-like in, and nearly put out her can- 
dle in its dying struggles. 

“Poor moth, poor foolish thing !” she sighed. She turned 
and let her gown rustle to the floor, where the sound of a hard 
thing falling made her look in her pocket. 

What magic and mystery was here ? Had fairies been at 
work? She drew forth a small morocco-covered box, in the 
dim light, and trying with unaccustomed fingers to open it, 
made the spring fly open the wrong way, and let fall from 
the purple velvet lining, with a faint fairy-like clink and an 
unearthly lustre, a string of pearls. She stood entranced of 
admiration and wonder when she saw the soft, milky lustre 
of the jewels in the direct ray of her candle ; and picking 
them up wound them round her neck and fastened the gold 
clasp with a little quick snap. Then she clasped her hands 
and looked in the small dim mirror before her and felt 
that curious fascination which has made jewels the typical 
price of women’s souls. The soft dreamy radiance of those 
pure and perfect spheres, a single row of them, large in front 
and gradually diminishing on each side toward the clasp, 
their harmony with the satiny gleam of the round, white neck! 
She gazed and dreamed, dreamed and gazed, spell-bound, 
while strange, dazzling visions swept forth from the shadowy 
depths of the mirror, thrilling with fear and delight, half 
shrinking, half challenging, like Britomartis interrogating 
Merlin’s enchanted crystal. Never till then had she given a 
thought to her lover’s wealth and wordly state. And not till 
then had she known the power of her own beauty. Her arms 
and neck were bare, her clothing white, her hair braided 
classically to her head, nothing interrupted the graceful flow 
of those lovely lines which pillar the head, beautifully poised 
as Jessie’s was, in an attitude of childlike admiration and 
pleasure ; her eyes, sapphire in their shadowed intensity, 
were brilliant, her hair shining, her lips slightly parted, her 
cheeks delicately flushed ; all was set off by the soft lustre of 
the pearls. 

“ How beautiful ! ” was her involuntary exclamation under 
the dreamy charm of the glimmering pearls. 

The fiery fascination of diamonds, the glowing enchant- 
ment of rubies she had felt ; but these pearls were her own, 
and so fitly chosen for her. What new thoughts and desires 
stirred her as she stood watching her own sweet image shine 
out from the shadowed depths of the old-fashioned mirror ! 
What thoughts ! It was time for her guardian angel to spread 
his sheltering wing above her. 


W THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


173 


Perhaps some pure protecting presence did overshadow 
her, for she passed her trembling hand before her eyes to 
shut out the tempting vision, and then unclasped and put 
away the necklace sorrowfully ; she knew well whence these 
enchantments had come. It was the first love gift, for there 
in the lid was a paper inscribed in a hand she knew, “For my 
darling, C. M.” He had slipped it into her pocket in the 
dark, and she had been too much occupied with the giver to 
remember the gift. 

She closed the case with a quick snap ; the candle, already 
flickering in its socket, flared suddenly up and then went out, 
and she sat down by the open lattice, pale and quivering in 
the gray shadows. 

Unsophisticated as she was, some deep instinct warned her 
that he had no right to give her anything so costly ; she was 
glad the necklace was hidden out of sight in its velvet bed ; 
at the first opportunity she would return it. 

She undressed in the dark, knelt awhile in the dark, and 
then laid herself to rest, dreaming of Claude, who w r as always 
twining strings of pearls, which kept changing to strangling 
snakes, round her neck, until she was glad of the dawn, with 
its welcome singing of birds. 

That night Philip was sitting alone, reading intently, when 
he was startled by a soft voice saying “ Philip,” in a low, dis- 
tinct, yet far-off tone. He looked quickly up, and there at 
the other end of the large, bare Indian room, her drapery 
unstirred by the punkah wind, was Jessie, all in white, with 
outstretched arms, and overshadowing her — something — that 
froze his blood and made his heart knock loudly against his 
ribs. He sprang up, they rushed together, he clasped a 
shadow which melted away from his eager embrace. 

He told the doctor, who listened without surprise. Anglo- 
Indians, as he knew, when separated from home and friends, 
have had strange mental experiences, caused by repressed 
homesickness and the brooding incident to long periods of 
inaction and comparative solitude. So he told Philip, assur- 
ing him that there was no disease, only an overstrained im- 
agination. But Philip was very uneasy about Jessie for some 
time, and in the first heat of the feeling he wrote her a long 
and most affectionate letter, which she never saw. 


CHAPTEK IX. 


THE BREAKING. 

It had been “ gently broken ” at last, and Claude Medway 
was standing alone in the woodland shadows with the pearls 
broken and strewn on the mossy path at his feet, whither 
Jessie had cast them in scorn when she turned and fled. His 
face was set in stern lines, in his heart there beat the strong- 
est feeling he had yet had, even for Jessie, to whom it had 
been given to stir the deepest currents of his unawakened 
nature. 

When Sir Arthur’s revelation of embarrassments and losses 
had stopped his son’s avowal of his intended marriage with 
Jessie, and shown him that such a marriage could not be 
contemplated, the better man that had sprung up in him had 
received, as he thought, his death-blow. For him there 
could now be no pure and lovely domestic life, he must sink 
back to his old, stale amusements and interests, and gradually 
develop into the world-worn cynic who is the middle-aged 
result of a youth of pleasure. But he would not harm Jessie ; 
he w r ould never see her again, and so gradually she would for- 
get him. He would marry Clara, as his father wished, and 
so mend the family fortunes. 

But not yet, while his heart was still throbbing with the 
one strong and pure passion of his life. 

Good manners and obedience was all that Lady Gertrude had 
required of her sons ; they were left to the care of nurses and 
tutors until they were thrown, defenceless, into the fiery fur- 
nace of public-school life in which the boys are supposed to 
educate each other. Here they learned a certain hardness, mis- 
named manliness, a curiously one-sided code of honor and a 
scorn of some kinds of lying, besides many bodily 'accom- 
plishments and some heathen learning. Other things, by no 
means Christian, are taught and learned necessarily where 
masses of boys, without wholesome home restraints or fem- 
inine intercourse, are herded together. And because gentle- 
men and Christians often pass unscathed through the furnace, 


JiV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


175 


people think public-school life a fine thing. Piety and mo- 
rality are not the leading characteristics of cavalry regiments, 
selected for their social standing ; it cannot be said they 
are the best schools for acquiring such virtues as self-re- 
straint or self-denial, because vigorous young men with 
much money and little to do, require strong principles to 
keep them from making enjoyment and luxury the aim of 
their lives. Thus, it must be acknowledged, it would be 
foolish to expect the loftiest religion and purest ethics from 
Claude Medway, in spite of his genial nature and wholesome 
intellect. 

“For your strength and your manhood will little avail you 
an’ God be against you,” was the end of the sentence Jessie 
was reading when Clara Lonsdale appeared in the picture 
gallery. He thought often upon it in those days. 

He had not foreseen how hard a struggle it would be to 
give up Jessie. Yet he might have battled through but for 
an unfortunate sentence in a letter from Ethel — “Jessie was 
looking so ill,” she said, “ so pale and spiritless.” Was 
Jessie’s sweet life to be marred for a punctilio ? As for Clara 
he had neither asked nor wished her to care for him. He 
had paid her attentions that she seemed to expect ; no doubt 
he had taken advantage of her evident inclination for him. 
His conscience was not sensitive on this point. Women must 
take care of themselves, particularly women of the world like 
Clara. She was not like Jessie, the unexpectedness and mys- 
tery of whose character made a part of the deep charm by 
which she had so completely mastered him. 

Jessie had thought no harm of the secrecy of their engage- 
ment. She was accustomed to live a life so totally apart from 
that of the Plummers, to have interests and affections so alien 
to anything they could share, that it did not even occur to 
her that her friends should be told, any more than it occurs to 
people to tell their aims and interests to their young children. 
Her whole inward life was necessarily clandestine, as far as 
they were concerned ; and from the days when she studied 
secretly at night at Miss Blushford’s till now, she had been 
accustomed to keep silence on the things nearest her heart. 

To Claude’s intense surprise and relief she suggested keep- 
ing the engagement secret until Philip could be communi- 
cated with. The naivete of her supposition that Philip’s 
consent could easily be procured amazed him. 

As for Sir Arthur’s wishes, they seemed natural to her. 
Parents usually had these unpleasant views about their chil- 
dren’s marriages ; in the meantime a silent patience must be 


176 


IJSr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


observed until opportunity was ripe and the parental will 
gave way. 

And in the meantime what happiness, what a pure and 
perfect idyl of high-souled love in those golden autumn days ! 
Was ever lover so chivalrous, so considerate, so perfect as 
Claude ? Was ever intercourse so sweet, so full of intellect 
as theirs ? Sure, she thought, to love him was a liberal edu- 
cation. He really had average brains and was fairly well 
read, besides having travelled and seen much of interest, and 
possessing the art of presenting his intellectual wares with 
charm and elegance. To Jessie, who had never before held 
intimate discourse with a man of culture and taste, he was an 
Apollo as well as a Bayard. Mr. Ingleby’s conversation con- 
sisted chiefly of Paris matters and good-humored banter of 
his sister ; he had avoided being alone with Jessie since the 
inopportune appearance of Roger on the bridge, and he shone 
with faint lustre by the side of Claude. Besides, is not Love 
“ as sweet and musical as bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his 
hair?" 

Surely the very mosses on the tree-trunks in those wide- 
spreading Marwell woods must have been full of the finest 
essence of poetic love ! The meetings were seldom in the 
same spot, or at the same hour, they were planned with a 
perfect art which concealed itself. In the hot, drowsy noons 
of that lovely autumn weather, in the warm gloamings by the 
light of the flaming comet, even in the fresh dawn when 
Jessie had risen and gone out to paint some sunrise effect, the 
meetings, which were not too frequent, took place. 

“ Oh ! ” cried Jessie one day, “ why are you a rich man ? 
If you were but poor, how happy we might be ! How I 
would try to make your home comfortable and pleasant. 
The hardest work would be a pleasure, done for you. I 
would like to make some sacrifice for you — love is not per- 
fect without sacrifice.” 

“Jessie," he replied, rapidly, “I shall need sacrifice from 
you — a great sacrifice.” 

She turned toward him with a sweet expectancy, placing 
her hands in those held toward her. 

“ I am not rich, dearest,” he replied, gravely, “ but very 
poor.” She smiled as if poverty were an agreeable trifle, 
scarcely worth mentioning, and he told her more fully of 
those losses and embarrassments which he and his father had 
recently disclosed to each other. He told her how this had 
prevented his speaking to his father of their marriage. 
He further told her that he must save Marwell Court from 


nr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


177 


sale by his marriage with an heiress ; lastly, that Sir Arthur 
would never consent to any other marriage. “ And so, dear- 
est,” he said in conclusion, looking earnestly into the guileless 
face he had taken in his hands, and pausing for a word 

“ And so,” she concluded for him with a tender smile on 
her upturned face, “you wish it to be a secret marriage?” 

“ Secret,” he replied, his face darkening. 

“Oh! Claude,” cried Jessie, averting her gaze, “you 
frighten me when you look like that.” 

“ And this is the sacrifice ? ” she asked, through tears, when 
he had soothed and reassured her. “ Ah ! dearest, I would do 
more than that for you, I who have neither father nor mo- 
ther, or — ” she paused, thinking of Philip. “ Surely it is not 
a question of sacrifice,” she added, “but of duty. Dearest 
Claude, can it be right ? ” 

He could not trust himself to meet the child-like gaze of 
those limpid eyes any longer ; with a slight shudder he drew 
the face to his breast and covered it with the shadow of his 
own bent over it. “ My child,” he said, gently, “you are not 
quite eighteen, and have never been twenty miles from this 
spot. Which of us two knows most of life ? which is the most 
capable of knowing what is conventionally and what is really 
right ? ” 

“ Oh ! Claude,” she faltered, “ to disobey parents ! ” 

“I am a son, but not a child, Jessie,” he said, with an in- 
dulgent smile ; “surely a grown man may choose his wife.” 

“But deceit?” 

“ My sweet child, it would be nonsense to expect you to 
understand business ; but don’t you see, if it were known, not 
only to my people, but to the world, there would be a smash, 
our creditors would sell us out. While they think there is a 
chance of my marrying my cousin we can keep our heads 
above water. People don’t live on money, but on credit. 
You heard of the run on that bank that failed the other day ? 
There’s not a bank going that could stand a run upon it. 
They’ve not got the cash, they live upon credit.” 

Jessie’s mind was not convinced by this brilliant reasoning 
on facts beyond her ken, but she was sure that Claude was 
wisdom itself. 

“Ah! Jessie, I see how it is,” he added, moving away a 
pace or two beneath the beech-tree’s sun-flecked shade and 
fetching a heart-broken sigh, “you don’t love me, after all.” 

“ Not love you ? Oh ! Claude.” 

“If you loved me,” he returned, in accents of tenderest re- 
proach, “ you would trust me,” 

12 


178 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Then he stood, pale and handsome, beneath the trembling 
gold green lights, his arms folded in resigned misery upon 
his chest, the picture of an injured lover. The touch of 
Jessie’s light hands was powerless to unclasp the folded arms, 
the caressing tones of her voice, and her assurances of per- 
fect love and trust availed nothing to heal the wounded heart 
or chase the gloom from his face for at least three minutes, 
when he accepted consolation and she was forgiven, with the 
proverbial result, and with the further result that Jessie went 
home convinced of the propriety of a secret marriage. 

She did not know what a warfare she was waging, or dream 
what terrible odds were against her. What chance has an 
innocent girl, ignorant of life and of the evils to which she is 
most exposed, against a grown man, much less a man ten 
years her senior, a man who had seen so much of the world 
as Claude Medway ? Against her unarmed simplicity and de- 
sire to do right were arraigned age, sex, rank, education, and 
knowledge of life ; against the self-sacrificing devotion of a 
young, pure-hearted woman’s first love, the strong, selfish pas- 
sion of a man who had never learned to deny himself ; against 
the reverence with which women are taught to bow to man’s 
mental powers, the sturdy self-confidence with which men 
are (quite unnecessarily) taught to regard their own. 

Never once in their subsequent meetings did Jessie dream 
that those interesting speculations as to what constituted a 
real, as opposed to a conventional marriage, had any bearing 
on her own case. She became very bewildered w T hen she 
learnt how various are the notions of civilized nations on what 
constitutes legal marriage, a ceremony of which she had 
hitherto conceived as merely going to the parish church and 
having the familiar service read. She now learned that what 
one person held as true marriage was no marriage to another ; 
that Roman Catholics do not hold marriages true except by 
their own church rites ; that a Roman Catholic marriage is 
nothing in England or France without civil rites ; that in Scot- 
land the declaration of marriage before two witnesses is a 
valid and legal bond, until she readily assented to the grand 
inference that true marriage consisted not in conventional 
contracts, which are valuable merely as conferring rights in 
property and making a fair show to the world, but in the 
union of two congenial hearts made entirely one by perfect 
love and sympathy. She heard much of the perfect love and 
trust with which sweet and spotless Mary Godwin gave her- 
self to the gentle, high-souled Shelley, and of the lasting 
happiness of that mqst congenial union ; and she was furnished 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORK. 


179 


with many instances of morganatic marriages, and quickly 
convinced of the tyranny and cruelty to women of existing 
marriage laws ; and in all these discussions she saw Claude 
stand manfully forth as the champion of her oppressed sex. 

But easily convinced as she was of the truth of this modern 
Plato’s reasonings, she was by no means prepared to act upon 
them. When at last the ugly fact stood revealed in native 
blackness that she was required, herself, to dispense with the 
conventional form of marriage, and trust her honor and hap- 
piness unreservedly to the constancy and honor of the man 
in whose love and honor she fully believed, her indignation 
broke forth all the more strongly because she could not 
reason about it, had no power, and, alas ! no desire to resist 
Claude’s sophistry. Those pearls had always disquieted her ; 
she had asked him to take them back many times, but had 
been over-persuaded. She brought them with her on that 
critical day of revelation, and dashed them to the earth in the 
first heat of her indignation, when she told him that she 
could never listen to proposals so unworthy, and that they 
must never meet again. 

“You do not love me, then,” he reproached her, in a heart- 
broken voice ; “ you care only for what the world thinks.” 

“Oh! Claude,” she sobbed, “I cannot reason, I can only 
feel. Wrong can never, never be right.” 

“ You cannot give up a mere conventional form for my sake, 
Jessie. And I am prepared to give up the whole world for 
you,” he continued, with sorrowful reproach. “ No one need 
ever know. We would live abroad, where you please. As 
you know, a public marriage with you would mean ruin to 
my family, and my father would never consent to it or forgive 
me. He has suffered too much already from one unfortunate 
marriage in our family.” 

“ I know, I know,” she returned, “ we should never have 
met. Our marriage would ruin you. Your father would dis- 
inherit you. It can never be. We must never see each other 
again, never. It has all been wrong, and I am punished. 
Ah ! you too ! I see it all too late.” 

“ Stop, Jessie, stop ! ” he cried, persuading her as she turned 
and left him ; but Jessie fled so swiftly down the woody path 
toward the keeper’s house that he did not follow her. 

“ After all,” he reflected, when his own agitation began to 
subside, and he picked up the scattered pearls from among 
the leaves and mosses at his feet, “I know her, the sweet, fiery 
little soul. This childish fury will bring a reaction, and a 
little calm reflection will result in a more reasonable frame 


180 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


of mind. I like that pretty rage. But she will soon yield to 
reason.” 

A little later he appeared upon the terraced lawn on one 
side of Marwell Court, where a large party was assembled in 
the sunshine, near a dusky, wide-spreading cedar, occupied 
with such inferior garden sports as existed before the advent 
of tennis. 

Nearly all the people there were staying in the house. The 
problem of entertaining these guests, many of whom, like 
himself, were there for partridge shooting, and planning and 
keeping secret assignations, which enhanced their sweet- 
ness and exercised his ingenuity in no small degree. It was 
now high time to devote himself to social duties, and more 
especially to the service of his cousin, who was, as usual, the 
centre of a little circle of men, to whom she was more or less 
fascinating according to her mood, this afternoon a gracious 
one, which imparted to her an adventitious sparkle that sug- 
gested, and almost was, beauty. He joined so easily and nat- 
urally in the pastime of the moment that no one observed his 
absence since luncheon — some two hours past — no one but 
Clara Lonsdale, whose eyes emitted a dark flash when he ap- 
peared. “I hope, Claude,” she said, dryly, in passing him, 
“ that you had a pleasant walk.” 

“Itfs pleasant under these cedars,” he replied, affecting to 
misunderstand her ; “ such a relief after grinding at letter- 
writing.” 

“ Letters, indeed ! ” Clara murmured bitterly, to herself ; 
“ and he thinks I don’t know.” 

“ I wonder what Cecil Bendor, and all those grinning idiots 
near her, would give for the chance of marrying my cousin 
and her acres?” Claude reflected. “After all, I never knew a 
woman who dresses better or has more go in her. But — to 
be tied for life ! ” 

He had secured one convert to his doctrine on the iniquity 
of marriage, as preachers so frequently do, namely — himself. 


CHAPTER X. 


WHISPERING REEDS. 

Jessie did so far experience a reaction after breaking the 
necklace as to pay a visit to the secret ivy-veiled post-office on 
the hedge-bank in the field. She did not relax in her deter- 
mination not to see Claude any more, but she wished to say 
some gentle word at parting, and she was not without an 
unconscious hope that he would see the iniquity of the step 
he had proposed. 

Her heart throbbed with a swift rush of joy, when after 
removing the stone at the mouth of the tiny cave she saw the 
well-known gleam of a white packet in the green shadow of 
the ivy curtain which covered her, and quickly hiding the 
precious missive in her dress, she went into the depths of the 
plantation nearest the farm to read it. 

The letter was rather tender than passionate ; sorrowfully 
pleading, soberly reasoning, the writer placed himself and 
his happiness at her feet. He implored her not to ruin his 
life for a narrow conventional punctilio. Then came the old 
arguments. Then a supplication for one more meeting, if 
only as farewell. The letter seemed to be written with tears 
for ink. 

“ Think, dearest, think what it is to save a man’s soul,” it 
said in conclusion ; “ your love alone can save mine, and 
redeem me from the ignoble life I dragged along until the 
sight of your sweet face revealed the possibility and hope of 
a better life, even for me. Believe me, dear, a holy love like 
ours can alone purify a man’s heart and lift him from the 
mire. Such is the true sanctity of marriage, not the degraded 
conventional, but the true soul marriage. Will you, for the 
sake of your own fair-seeming before a false and brutal world, 
destroy the soul and body of the man who loves you so 
devotedly ? ” 

Her heart shook as she read. It was well for her that he 
was not there, to add the charm of his presence, the deep 
thrilling tones of his voice, the magnetism of his glance, to 


182 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


the already overwhelming forces of his written words. Not 
only her heart but all her slender frame shook with the strife 
within her. Why, after all, should she think of herself, even 
her honor, in comparison with his happiness? Was she 
selfish, cruel to him, to this adored man ? What would she 
not sacrifice for him ? She would be content to forego 
Heaven, she would brave Hell ; but how could she do wrong ? 

She could not reason upon it, but in her innocent heart 
there thundered' a stern, deep, “ Thou slialt not,” with a 
heavy boom that from time to time stilled the wildest storm 
of passion. She had a deep but unconscious feeling that a sin 
is a wound to all that is good and elevating ; that something 
above and beyond self is hurt by it ; that it can bring happi- 
ness to none ; that to sin for a man is to sin against him ; but 
she could not put this into words ; she could only feel that 
wrong must not be done. 

But Claude made wrong seem right, and that rendered 
him so terrible. This letter convinced her ; and then, after 
yielding to the conviction, that voice of thunder once more 
sounded through her soul, and she was again rent asunder by 
doubt and conflict. 

It was a long, long wrestle that she had under the beech- 
tree, the boughs of which had rustled softly over embraces 
she had never dreamed of refusing in those days of Eve-like 
innocence, embraces of which she was now ashamed, since the 
serpent of suggested sin had entered and darkened this sweet 
Eden. * 

Late that night Jessie, pale from her long conflict, held 
the precious letter firmly in the flame of her candle until it 
•was a black ash fluttering in defiling flakes about her white- 
draped room. She felt once more as if she had destroyed a 
living creature. Then she cried herself to sleep and dreamed 
a fairy dream from her childhood. She heard the mill’s 
drowsy familiar hum, she saw the baffled water perpetually 
trying to climb the unresting wheel and perpetually slipping 
discomfited away ; then Philip, clasping her small, weak hand 
in his strong one, told her that it was, after all, the defeated 
water which turned the remorseless wheel and set all the 
machinery going ; and then she seemed to see the water as a 
part of the great wave that girdles the earth, rises in vapors 
to the sun, and descends in snow and hail to encircle the great 
globe once more, thus permeating the atmosphere in an 
eternal round. The diamond spray dashed from the turn- 
ing wheel, circled the white feet of angels always ascending 
the moving stair and streaming upward, always upward, in 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


183 


steady unceasing flight till her mind lost itself in the vast dim 
spaces of sleep, and she awoke refreshed and comforted, with 
the pleasant sound of the mill-wheel and the climbing water 
mingling with heavenly music in her ears all day long. 

“You are quite a stranger,” Miss Ingleby said to her one 
day on her appearance at the Rectory. 

“ Is it so long since I was here ? ” she asked, coloring, con- 
fused and suddenly conscious of the icy chill in Miss Ingleby 
as well as of a grave and pained expression in her brother’s 
always kind gaze. 

“You have doubtless been more pleasantly engaged,” 
continued Miss Ingleby, intently considering the colors of 
some silks she was arranging on her embroidery. 

“ I have been busy,” she faltered, “sketching.” 

“Sketching,” echoed Miss Ingleby, thoughtfully selecting 
the color she wanted and beginning to thread her needle, 
without looking up. “ Hm ! Sketching plans ? Making de- 
signs ? Some people are clever at designing, I think.” 

“ No ; sketching from nature,” she replied, with a quivering 
lip, while Miss Ingleby obstinately refused to look up and 
meet the fiery indignation in her brother’s eyes. 

“ I am afraid sketching is rather lonely work for you, Jessie,” 
he said, with his accustomed kindness. “ Nothing more fas- 
cinating than sketching — unless it is fishing — it makes one 
waste all one’s time out-of-doors. But alone as you are, it is 
scarcely suitable — especially — hm — ah, being so young, and 
— ah, in short, for a young lady it is decidedly lonely — yes, 
lonely” he concluded with unwonted confusion and hesitation. 

“ No, Mr. Ingleby,” said Jessie, looking down at the dog, 
which had run up to receive the pats she always bestowed 
upon it, “ though it is very pleasant to be out-of-doors ; I don’t 
find it lonely.” 

“ I don’t suppose you do,” commented Miss Ingleby, with 
a sarcasm so awful in its dryness that Jessie was ready to 
sink through the floor. 

“ Susan ! ” exclaimed her brother. 

“ Did you speak, William ? ” she asked, looking up with an 
air of utter vacuity. “ How I wish you would learn to shut 
the door when you come into the room ; there is Spot again, 
pawing Miss Meade’s dress ; you know that he always follows 
you.” 

That “ Miss Meade ” transfixed Jessie as with an icy spear. 
She was accustomed to “ Jessie,” “ child,” and other fondling 
appellations ; but that freezing address banished her to the 
North Pole. As for all the pleasant pretty ways she had with 


184 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Miss Ingleby— kneeling by her side to look at her work and 
talk to her, pressing her cheek against her arm — they were 
now utterly impossible. She wondered if it could be true that 
she had ever dared to kiss that flinty-faced woman, much less 
had been kissed by those cruel, dangerously smiling lips. 

She was silent and pale for some minutes, no longer fearful 
of bursting into tears as at first, being wounded beneath that 
source ; while Mr. Ingleby, in a manner totally unlike his 
usual easy cheerfulness, bustled about the room, bringing her 
things to look at, among others a photograph by an ardent 
amateur, one of those horribly ghastly blotches which were 
admired in the infancy of that now familiar art, and repre- 
sented his pet cricket club grouped about the tall and com- 
manding figure of Claude Medway, with his own in the back- 
ground. In the old days Jessie would have gone about the 
room and ferreted out fresh and interesting things herself. 

“ It — ah — it is not very flattering,” she gasped, looking at 
this truly dreadful thing. 

“No,” returned Mr. Ingleby, suddenly conscious of his 
mistake, “photography cannot flatter, it tells the truth;” 
which indeed it does, after the fashion of a Swift, a Hogarth, 
or an exceedingly spiteful old woman of either sex who prides 
herself upon uttering especially unpleasant truths, but not 
after the fashion of a Eaphael and a Shakespeare. 

Miss Ingleby continued to be consumed by an unwonted 
spirit of industry, and her needle made little, swift, and most 
exasperating clicks against her thimble, until Jessie longed 
to snatch both from her hand, instead of which she rose and 
said something about going. She knew that Miss Ingleby 
knew that she had come over on purpose for tea ; but instead 
of being asked to prolong her visit, she received two cold 
fingers and a distant farewell. 

“ May I see you home, Jessie, if you are going that way ? * 
her gentle-hearted host asked, in spite of an admonitory 
frown from his sister. 

“By Jove, Sue,” he said afterward, “it takes a woman to 
be really cruel to a woman. I’ve known you a good many 
years, but I didn’t know half the venom that is in j^ou. Hit 
a woman when she’s down, never give her a chance of getting 
up again, especially if she has no friends. That’s your truly 
damnable motto.” Which, as his sister tartly observed, was 
pretty language for a clergyman. 

He did see Jessie home, remarking with great originality 
upon the weather, the comet, the conduct of “ Clemency ” 
Canning, who actually weighed the misery of “ those black 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


185 


devils,” the Hindoos, against his countrymen’s lust of ven- 
geance, until her agitation had somewhat subsided, and they 
had reached the bridge which spanned the stream running 
through the tiny wooded glen in which she had vainly sought 
to make her confession. 

“Let us look down the stream,” he said; “how it gives 
back the rich colors of the autumnal trees ! What a sketch 
for you ! ” 

“ Too evanescent, the colors change before one’s eyes,” she 
replied. 

“ Forgive an old fellow’s advice,” he added, rather confus- 
edly, “ and sketch no more this autumn ; it is too cold for 
you.” 

“It is growing colder, certainly.” 

“Jessie,” he continued, inconsequently, “ I have known you 
since you were — so high.” 

“Yes, Mr. Ingleby.” 

“And I am your parish priest.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I knew your father and mother — I was always fond of 
you.” 

“ Always most kind.” 

“ You are looking very tired, my dear. I would rather 
not worry you, but — are you engaged to Claude Medway ? ” 
he blurted out. 

The blood leapt to her face, she gave a start, but she turned 
and looked unflinchingly into Mr. Ingleby ’s grieved, kind 
face as she replied, quietly, 

“No, I am not.” 

“ Oh, my child, forgive me,” he said, very earnestly ; “but 
people say that you ought to be, they do, indeed.” 

“ Then" they are wrong,” she commented, sighing, as she 
looked down into the brown stream, which was now darken- 
ing in the evening shadows ; “ I am no match for him. Noth- 
ing could be more unsuitable for him or for me.” 

They both kept silence for some moments, she looking 
thoughtfully at the stream, every curve in her features indi- 
cative of settled, hopeless sorrow, he studying her face with 
deep pity and tenderness. 

“It is quite true,” he said at last. “ But, dear Jessie, you 
do not know the world’s ways, and there are so few to teach 
you, and I fear you have made a mistake.” 

“Yes?” 

“ Do you know what people say when a girl in your posi- 
tion and a man in his are seen walking alone together? 


186 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


They say that that girl does not know what is due to lierself, 
has no self-respect.” 

“It is time to go home,” said Jessie, moving away with 
crimson indignation. 

He followed her with confused words of apology. 

“ You ought to know it, indeed you ought,” he said ; “ what 
sort of a friend should I be if I did not tell ; you are young, 
you don’t even know what is thought correct.” 

“Perhaps so.” 

“ My dear Jessie,” he continued, earnestly, “ I have a pain- 
ful duty to perform, I must ask your promise that there shall 
be no more — no more occasions for babbling tongues.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Ingleby,” returned Jessie, with a little scorn, “ you 
need not alarm yourself, now that you have told me what is 
correct.” 

“You don’t know how all this has pained me,” he contin- 
ued, “ and how glad I am to hear from you that there is now 
no more fear of — of conduct that gossips may misinterpret. 
I was your father’s friend and Phil Randal’s — and — and I 
should have had to speak to your cousins unless ” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Ingleby ! ” cried Jessie, in agonized tones, “pray 
don’t do that. You don’t know that they would — my cou- 
sins are not — not — they are plain people and they say things 
- — for heaven’s sake don’t let them hear this miserable scan- 
dal. Left alone, it will die out, but — with all your age and 
wisdom and knowledge of the world, don’t you know how 
things grow by being talked of ? They would vex Philip too.” 

“Now that I have your distinct assurance that there is no 
engagement of any kind , nothing between you and Captain 
Med way,. and that you will not again be seen with him,” he 
replied, very slowly and distinctly, “ there is no occasion for 
me to call their attention to this unfortunate scandal. But, 
my dear, you will have to be very careful to silence people’s 
tongues. Could you not have some school-friend to stay with 
you? You had better not be seen anywhere alone just now.” 

“I should like to go away altogether, as — I have told you 
before ” 

“Oh! that would never do. You would be still more 
friendless and unprotected where you are not known. The 
only thing is to be very quiet and busy yourself a good deal 
with household affairs just now. We all have to buy our ex- 
perience, Jessie, and it is a most expensive thing ; costs one’s 
very heart-blood sometimes. You will have to pay for this wi.th 
a little discomfort and dulness, my poor child ; don’t shrink 
from it, and it will soon blow over. Jessie, I, for one, am per- 


IF THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


187 


fectly sure that ignorance of conventionalities is the worst 
charge against you. I am and always shall be your friend. I 
would give anything to serve you, I am not a fair-weather 
friend. You may trust me.” 

She went home heart-struck and despairing. The very 
trees seemed to mock at her as their sere leaves rustled to- 
gether in the evening wind. Every word of Mr. Ingleby’s 
had scorched her like the touch of fire. She could not look 
in Sarah’s kind face when she crept by instinct to the kitchen 
for comfort ; she had fancied that some farm - laborers 
grouped about an out-house in the dusk, looked at her and 
then whispered together as she passed; when she heard 
Abraham’s heavy familiar step on the court-yard cobble 
stones, she rose from her nook by the kitchen hearth and fled 
away to the dim parlor, where the first fire of the season made 
a pleasant glow in the gloom, but she could not look her cou- 
sins in the face. She sat palpitating and .wondering if any 
whisper had reached them. When Roger came in, she shud- 
dered and dared not look up ; what if he had heard? 

“ Where’s Jess ? ” he asked in his bluff, cheerful voice. 
“ Hullo, Jess, been out to tea? Fire looks pleasant. There’ll 
be a smartish frost to-night, I’ll warrant, father.” 

He would not speak like that if he knew, she thought. 
How glad she was when she could go to her room and be 
alone with her misery. She was wiser to-night than in the 
morning. She knew the taste of shame. But from Mr. In- 
gleby ; had it been anyone but he ! 

She thought of the old days when he would come in the 
summer evenings and sit in the garden chatting, and some- 
times smoking, with her father. He would beckon her to his 
side and she would lean, clasped by his arm against his 
shoulder, pleased and proud to be noticed. Sometimes he 
would blow tobacco-smoke at her to tease her, then he would 
make her laugh by some droll remark or tell her funny sto- 
ries, and she would rifle his pockets for sweets. He would 
take her with Philip for a row on the river. How she used to 
run to open the gate when she saw him coming, a handsome 
young curate, with sunny eyes, calling her his little sweetheart, 
or pretending to be very cross and gruff and threatening to 
have her whipped. She seemed to hear the pleasant sound 
of the mill-wheel, to smell the lavender and roses, and see the 
familiar garden and familiar lost faces again. She could 
hear him asking her to spell Constantinople, and puzzling her 
with catch questions in arithmetic. And he had thought 
shame of her, pityingly and lovingly according to his sweet 


188 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


nature ; still he had thought shame, her only friend besides 
distant Philip. 

Then a hot rush of crimson dyed her face, when she re- 
membered how nearly he had been justified in so thinking. 

Many little things showed themselves in a new light to 
Jessie on that sorrowful night, as she sat sobbing in her 
shadowy room. She knew now why Mrs. Blackley, of Fair- 
fields Farm, had driven past her with her face so firmly set in 
an unconscious, straight-ahead look — Mrs. Blackley, who 
talked about “ harses,” and disliked sitting in a “ earner.” 
And why Ellen Dale, the daughter of another farmer, a girl 
whom she greatly liked for her kind heart and friendly, unaf- 
fected ways, had been so confused and hurried when they met 
in the village. Jessie, it must be confessed, had patronized 
Ellen as a homely, untaught girl, who once observed that she 
thought all poets were “lards,” like Byron, and added that 
she liked stories without rhymes best, because they were easy 
to make out, and hadn’t got so much flummery to make any- 
body’s head run round. She shivered when she imagined 
Cousin Jane’s sharp tongue and plain truths upon the sub- 
ject ; she thought of Mr. Plummer’s broad comments, of Mr. 
Clieeseman’s unvarnished observations, and probably coarse 
reproofs. She pictured Miss Blushford’s speechless horror, 
and saw her gathering her skirts around her in fear of con- 
tamination ; she fancied she heard Dr. Maule swearing about 
it. Then Sir Arthur’s polished contempt, Lady Gertrude’s 
stony-annihilating glance, Miss Lonsdale’s disdainful sneer, 
Ethel’s perplexed dismay — she saw them all in imagination, 
and remembered, with sickening terror, the sudden insolent 
familiarity of Adele, Miss Medway’s French maid, the last time 
she went to the Court. If this scandal got wind she felt that 
it would kill her. 

And she had no friend to whom she might flee in this tem- 
pest of misery, she thought, casting herself, sobbing, by her 
bedside — no friend but Claude, the Tempter whispered ; 
Claude would never scorn her. She heard a faint rustle and 
a familiar sound— something between a growl and a purr, 
then a warm furry thing brushed her face and hands, and she 
looked up into the one brilliant remaining eye of Sebastopol, 
who was limping to and fro on her three legs with erect tail 
and the tenderest wink of her one eye, striving with all her 
limited and crippled powers to express sympathy. Jessie 
clasped the scarred and maimed Crimean veteran to her 
heart and wept more comfortably over the disreputable iron- 
gray fur. 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


189 


u Dear, dear Sebastopol ! ” she murmured, in her childish 
way, “ you would never blame me, would you ? Neither 
would dear Phil,” she added, after a little while, wonderfully 
quieted and comforted by the cross old creature’s sympathy. 

Poor Miss Ingleby also became a wiser woman on that day ; 
for the first time in the thirty and odd years during which she 
had known her brother, she saw him really angry, and heard 
him say things that hurt her. 

“ It is such women as you,” he cried, on his return, “ who 
cause more than half the vice and misery in the world. Your 
hateful Pharisaic ways drive other women to despair. Does a 
woman commit the slightest error, whether in innocence or in 
frailty, no matter to your stony-hearted, arrogant virtue, you 
stop up every avenue of return to her. You do more — you 
deliberately push her into the mire, and then you go smirk- 
ing to church and call yourself miserable sinners, which you 
are, and insult the Almighty by asking forgiveness, which you 
need not suppose for a moment you’ll get 

“ William ! upon my word ! ” she interrupted, recovering 
from the speechlessness of utter dismay. 

“You will not get it,” he repeated, emphatically. “Look 
here, Susan, at the work you’ve done to-day. You’ve made 
me cut an innocent, high-minded girl’s heart in two ; a poor 
child who knows no more of conventionalities than an angel 
in heaven.” 

“ How does the man know that they don’t know ? ” his 
sister murmured. 

“ You’ve shut my house upon a young lady you had prom- 
ised and were bound to befriend. You’ve insulted a friend- 
less, motherless girl ; a girl in a peculiar social position, who 
had no woman but you to teach her the ways proper to that 
position. For a blundering beast of a man to have to tell 
her ! Why, it cut her to the soul ! Of course you will apolo- 
gize, but Jessie will, of course, be unable to come again. 
You might have managed to show her what was right without 
letting her know anything at all of this wretched gossip, 
instead of leaving me to blurt it all out. Women know 
women.” 

“They do,” returned Miss Ingleby, with an acid smile. 

“ Horrid little wretch ! ” she said to herself, when her 
brother had stormed out of the room ; “ the impudence of 
casting her spells upon poor old Will ! Why, he is head over 
ears in love. Not that it takes much,” she mused, “for a 
woman to make a fool of a man.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE STORM GATHERS. 

“ Wliat’s the meaning of all this, Abraham ? ” asked Roger 
Plummer, “all this ” indicating a black eye which adorned 
the otherwise plain countenance of Abraham Bush, who was 
sitting on the floor of the barn with his legs spread out in 
front of him, while he wielded an implement soon destined to 
vanish from rural life, an implement consisting of two sticks 
loosely jointed together, one, the hansel held in the hand, 
and the other jointed to it, the swingel descending with a 
dull thud upon the wheat-ears before him, a sound that used 
to make pleasant music the winter long upon barn floors, and 
an occupation that warmed laborer’s bodies in the cold win- 
ter days when no other work was to be found. 

“ I knacked en down,” growled Abraham, bringing the flail 
music to an end. 

“Knocked who down?” asked Roger, “and why?” 

“Job Ash ! A zaid zummant about Miss — you knows what 
a zaid — Iss. I knacked en down. Job he got up and a 
knacked me down. Then I gets up and I knacks en down 
agin, and Job he ups and cuts and hruns. I lows he hrunned 
pretty smart. Aye, that’s how’t was, I hreckon.” 

Thud, thud went the flail, and the chaff fluttered and 
whirled in the wind raised by the energetic strokes for a 
minute or two, then Abraham paused again. “Iss,” he re- 
peated, “I knacked en down, zure enough.” 

“You done bright, Abraham,” said Roger, who had been 
standing scowling with his hands in his pockets, whence he 
withdrew one with half a crown, which he offered to Abra- 
ham. 

“ What be ye gwine at with he ? ” growled Abraham, glar- 
ing with mingled vindictiveness and longing at the comfort- 
able-looking coin. 

“Take it, Abram.” 

“ You putt that there in yure packet, Mr. Roger,” he re- 
plied, growing more and more surly under the witchery of 
the shining silver and the depressing consciousness that Mr. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


191 


Roger was a “ near one,” and might not offer him another 
half-crown that side of Christmas. “Anybody’d think I 
caint knack nobody down athout being paid vor V* 

“ Trust you for that. Why, you’ve known her from a 
baby,” Roger* returned, pitching the half-crown neatly be- 
tween Abraham’s outspread legs. “But you’ve no call to 
look so sure at a good half-crown. Chuck it away if you 
don’t want it. I shan’t hev it. So you knacked en down ? ” 

“Wasn’t I mad ! ” continued Abraham. “Shouldn’t a ben 
sa mad if it hadn’t a ben true.” 

“You don’t think it, Abraham?” groaned Roger. 

“Zeen ’em in copse together, two or dree times, never 
thought nothen at the time. She’s always up Court. Out 
painten long with Miss Lonsdale, long with t’other one that’s 
laame. But a young maid din’t ought to be out long with 
he.” 

Roger growled an execration on the unnamed. 

“ Wish I had the Capen under this yer zwingel ! ” added 
Abraham, bringing his flail down with both hands. 

“ Wish you’d a told me first time you saw them,” said Roger. 

“ You tell your vather, Mr. Roger ; tell en to pen her up 
in garret, if she wunt bide at home nohow else.” 

“ No, Abraham, ’t is best to keep a still tongue if you can. 
I know and you know, and between us we can keep her in 
sight whenever she goes out. If there’s anything more be- 
tween them I expect he won’t have a whole bone left in his 
body. But she’s going to Cleeve to-morrow for a week, so 
she’ll be out of harm’s way for a time.” 

“ Let her bide in Cleeve long with school-missus, that’s the 
best plaace vur she. A 3 r oung maid is like a heifer, zure to 
fall in trench, or go droo vence, or zummat, athout you looks 
pretty sharp after her. One heifer is more tarment than 
twenty wold cows.” 

Thud, thud, thud went the flail, while Abraham’s face, the 
lips and chin of which bristled with a week’s spiky growth, 
was drawn into such grim and vicious lines as would lead one 
to suppose that he was wreaking vengeance on the corn be- 
fore him. 

Roger took up a wooden shovel and made the winnowed 
corn into a neat heap ready for a sack to the tune of the flail 
strokes, then he turned back through a cloud of floating chaff 
to Abraham, whose face was more viciously set and his 
strokes fiercer than ever. 

“No, no, Abraham,” he said, “keep a still tongue; don’t 
even tell your wife.” 


192 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Abraham paused and wiped his brow. “No call to tell 
she,” he returned, with a sort of surly grin, “ Trust Sarow to 
find out. Darned if that ar ooman caint zee better droo a 
stone wall and hround a earner then you and me zees what’s 
straight avore our noses. Aye, she’s a deep ’un, is Sarow.” 

Roger went away with a hopeless air. “ Knack em all down, 
Abram,” was his final injunction as he crossed the farm yard. 
Seeing Jessie coming in from the garden with a basket of 
filberts, 

“ Hullo, Jess,” he cried, “ so you’re off to-morrow. Wish 
you’d wait till next day, and I could drive you in.” 

“Thank you, Roger,” she returned, “the carrier’s cart will 
really be more convenient with my luggage.” 

“Look here, Jess,” continued Roger, taking off his hat to 
thrust his hand through his thick tangle of curls, “ I suppose 
you don’t want a friend ? ” 

“A friend, Roger?” asked Jessie, smiling and stopping by 
the low stone wall, on which she set her basket. “ Why?” 

“ Only if you want anybody knocked down or anything,” 
he continued, turning very red, “I’m your man.” 

Jessie turned red too, and something came up in her throat, 
half choking her. 

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for ye,” he went on, his 
blue eyes brilliant with earnestness. “ I was always set on 
ye, but I never said anything — because of poor Phil, what’s 
away. If you hadn’t been promised to him. But there, you 
never have looked at the likes of me, I’m hrough and dunch. 
Shouldn’t ha’ named it, only I thought, as Phil can’t do no- 
thing — if you wanted anything done, no matter what, I’m 
your man. Oh ! I say, Jessie, Jessie ! ” 

She was crying in a way that went to the honest fellow’s 
heart, crying quietly but sadly. 

“ You were always good to me, Roger,” she replied at last, 
“ far better than I deserved. You used to let me pull your 
hair as a boy. But I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.” 

“ It was only if you wanted anything done,” he murmured. 
“ I’d never ’a spoke else. If tliere’d been a chance, I wouldn’t 
have been so mean with poor Phil away.” 

“Forget me, Roger,” she said, drying her eyes, “but I 
will never forget you and your kindness.” She gave him her 
hand and left him, stabbed by his words and touched by his 
friendliness, and thinking of the way in which she had under- 
valued this sterling fellow because of his rough exterior and 
intolerable ways. And yet to be pitied and extenuated by 
Roger ! Well, it would not be for long. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


193 


She had not left Redwoods since her visit to the Inglebys. 
It was evident to Jessie that Mrs. Plummer had heard noth- 
ing of that terrible gossip — which was not surprising, since 
scandal usually reaches all ears but those most concerned in it. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Plummer wanted to send a message 
to a woman, whose cottage was about a mile and a half dis- 
tant. 

“ Do you run over, my dear,” she said to Jessie, “ the day’s * 
fine, though dull, and ’twill be a nice walk. Why, you haven’t 
been out this three days.” 

Jessie did not know how to refuse this small request ; she 
suggested sending the young maid-servant, or a letter, and 
even broached the immense heresy of her cousin’s faring forth 
with her. 

“ It’s not much you’ll hev at my death, Jessie,” moaned 
Mrs. Plummer, in response, “ so I cau’t think why you want 
me to be gallied into my grave so quick, I’m sure. Not that 
’twill be long, anyhow. And I’m the last to want to live on, 
a burden to my own flesh and blood. Plummer’d find a dif- 
ference in the housekeeping, not to speak of the dairy, and 
as for the poultry, I never was one to boast, but I should 
wish you to piut out finer broods of turkeys than what I’ve 
rared this summer. Night and day did I wait on them tur- 
keys, I don’t know what more I could a done for them short 
of sleeping outside their coops and not closing an eye all 
night, I’m sure. If anybody’d tell me what I could a done 
more, trapezing through the archard grass wet days, and 
wearing away to a shadow, I’d a done it and thankful.” 

Jessie hastened to reassure her cousin, while Mrs. Plum- 
mer, whose curls were in their full-dress condition and would 
not bear rough treatment from damp pocket-handkerchiefs, 
very carefully wiped her round, plump, apple-like cheeks. 

“ Not that I ever look to you to do anything, Jessie,” con- 
tinued Cousin Jane, with a mournful sigh from the depths of 
her broad and wholesome chest ; “ many a time your poor 
mother hev said to me, ‘I’ve a ben useful myself, cousin, and 
I should wish the little un to be arnamental.’ I was always 
against it myself, but there was never anybody forerigliter 
than your mother without ’twas your poor father. The times 
I warned poor Martha against having him ; but hev him she 
would and cart-ropes wouldn’t hold her. You’d a been easier 
to manage if she’d a married a more persuadabler man, Jes- 
sie, though I don’t cast it up agen you that your mother 
would marry Mat Meade. As for asking of you to spile your 
hands, I wouldn’t do it to save anybody’s life. And I’m sure 
13 


194 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


I never shut an eye last night with pig-killing and Roger’s 
shirts on my mind, and you going in to Miss Blushford’s to- 
morrow ; not that I wanted you to help pickle walnuts, which 
do black the hands terrible. But ready to drop as I am, go- 
ing over to Mrs. Woodford’s is no matter ; after all, when any- 
body’s worn out a mile or two’s nothing. What if it do take 
me off a week or so sooner ? I may as well die and a done 
with it, I suppose.” 

So Jessie thought, but she did not say so. 

“You mustn’t be cross on my last day, cousin,” she said, 
after receiving Mrs. Plummer’s final directions on the door- 
step at starting, “ and please try and think as gently as you 
can of me, whatever happens.” 

Her words and something unusual in her manner struck 
Cousin Jane with an uneasy sensation. “ Whatever have 
come over the child of late ? ” she wondered. “ Dear, dear, 
how I wish Philip would come home or else have her out ! 
She finds the time long, poor thing, she’s lonesome and she 
frets. It was just like poor Mat Meade to tie her up with 
Philip, and him going out to the Mutiny. But there, what 
is anybody to do with a girl that’s neither fish, flesh, nor good 
red herring ? She can’t be happy with plain folk, that’s sure. 
Poor Mat meant well, I will give him credit for that.” 

The day had clouded heavily since the morning, the weather 
was breathless and oppressive, though of late the air had had 
the strong, sharp bile which tells of coming winter, warms 
young blood, and inspirits drooping nerves. The heavy lan- 
guor weighed upon Jessie’s overburdened heart and depressed 
her, body and soul ; yet she walked with a quick, alert air and 
there was a tense, strained look on her face. 

Her shortest, most direct way lay straight across the Mar- 
well woods, but she chose to go the long way by the high- 
road and through the village. There she encountered Miss 
Ingleby and Ellen Dale, respectively, and it was these ladies 
who blushed and seemed conscious of neglect, while the in- 
finitesimal bow and utterly neutral expression with which 
Jessie passed on would have done credit to any woman of the 
world. 

“ As bold as brass,” murmured Miss Ingleby to herself ; “I 
should like William to have seen my lady sweep by with her 
princess air. Innocent child, indeed ! Artful young minx ! 
Well, I am glad they have given up having her with Ethel 
Medway ! ” 

It was Jessie who had given up going to Marwell Court, to 
Ethel’s great and freely expressed indignation. 


IF THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


195 


“ I really think the ingratitude of that class of people is 
beyond everything,” was Lady Gertrude’s comment upon 
Jessie’s written excuse for refusing Ethel’s request, “and 
after the manner in which you took her up, Clara.” 

“I am not in the least surprised, Aunt Gertrude,” her 
niece replied ; “ I am too much accustomed to ingratitude to 
expect anything else in a world like this,” she added, with a 
plaintive sigh which suggested acquaintance with infinitely 
superior worlds. 

“Your pets always round upon yon, Clara, don’t they?” 
interposed Claude, with an indifferent air. 

“ I really don’t know what we are coming to,” moaned Lady 
Gertrude ; “ Pauline had but just learnt a really becoming way 
of dressing my hair, and she must needs give warning to-day 
because her mother is paralyzed ; as if her mother could not 
go to a hospital. I suppose there are hospitals in France. 
The world is really becoming too material for me.” 

Jessie had done her errand that sultry afternoon, the 
woman of the house then begged her to sit down and rest 
after her walk. “It’s a good step from Redwoods, miss,” 
she said, looking her over with a curiosity that Jessie felt in 
every fibre, keenly sensitive to the fact that Mrs. Woodford 
had never before regarded her with such interest. “It’s 
gwine to thunder afore long. Wun’t ye bide till the starm’s 
blowed over ? ” 

“ Thunder ! ” echoed Jessie. “ Oh, I hope not. I must 
hurry home then. I’ll run quick the short way, Mrs. Wood- 
ford ; thank you.” 

She left the cottage, and struck across a piece of common 
toward the wood, scarcely turning her head when Mrs. Wood- 
ford called after her to offer an umbrella. The heavens were 
now dark with gathering storm, the cottage fire glowed redly 
from the open door, lighting up the tall oak-cased clock and 
throwing into strong relief the figure of the cottager in the 
door- way crying, “You’d better bide, you’d better bide.” 

Swiftly she sped over the soundless turf. She felt the hot 
glow from the lurid wall of purple storm advancing against 
the wind before her, and quivered with the indescribable 
nervous trouble thunder always caused her. It did not 
exactly terrify her, it was simply intolerable to her nerves. 
Lightning and thunder, together with the ojDpression of air 
over-charged with electricity, distressed and prostrated her ; 
her only thought now was to get home, where she would 
throw herself into Sarah’s arms and bury her face. As a 
child she had passed through many storms with her head 


196 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


covered by Philip’s jacket and her face pressed against him; 
her great horror was to be alone in these nervous crises, when 
the touch of some familiar and loving hand alone soothed 
her. 

She plunged into the woodland, the warning, “You’d 
better bide, you’d better bide,” of the hospitable cottager 
echoing in her ear. The sky was iron-kued where it was not 
lurid with swift-gathering tempest, the brooding expectancy 
of the gray still afternoon had changed to one disquiet of 
imminent trouble ; the long grasses shuddered, the dry leaves 
rustled anxiously and complained upon the trees which 
groaned as if foreboding pain ; cows and sheep moved rest- 
lessly about the pastures, birds fluttered with anxious cries 
from the sere foliage, all the woods shivered before the im- 
pending terror. The day was like Jessie’s life. 

She was too late to outrun the storm, she felt herself 
drawn beneath the dark wings of it, the hot breath of it lifted 
her hair and came in fitful gusts through the creaking trees, 
whirling clouds of sere leaves hither and thither. Suddenly, 
with a crack and a crash and a long booming roar, the awful 
thing burst right above her head. How frail she was before 
this iron blast, and how futile her speed against the rapid 
stride of the tempest ! 

Some large scattered drops fell on the dry yellow leaves 
she pressed on, panting and shrinking. She went blindly, 
closing her eyes to the dazzle of the lightning, and saw 
nothing till the rustle of a quick step through the dead leaves 
and the sound of a voice through the storm made her look up 
with an involuntary cry of joy into Claude Medway’s face. 

“Claude ! ” she cried, knowing and remembering nothing 
but that she was safe and calm and happy after all the 
tumults and trouble. 


CHAPTER Xn. 


THE STORM BREAKS. 

The rain was now rushing in torrents straight from the 
torn clouds above, there was no time to lose ; Claude took 
her hand and bid her run with him, and turning up a side- 
path from the main road, they reached a large shed, half-full 
of bark and faggots, where they were sheltered from the rain, 
though from the open front they could still see the tempest 
raging over the great space of sky which the slight downward 
slope of the woodland from the shed made visible. Jessie 
turned shuddering from it. 

Seeing the cause of her distress, he drew her back among 
the bundles of bark, where, by displacing some and piling 
others, he made a screened recess and arranged a seat for 
her. Her thick, irregular heart-beats became quiet and 
rhythmic, and a delicious calm stole upon her. He sat by 
her and took her hand ; she did not withdraw it, his touch 
was too healing. The storm crashed furiously on, the rain 
rushed with a hissing splash on the leaves all round the shed, 
the air was still like the heavy vapor of molten brass ; yet Jes- 
sie was undisturbed, her delicate cheek was tinged like an in- 
fant’s, and her breath came with the soft ease of a sleeping 
child’s, she could not see the distracting dazzle of the light- 
nings in the pleasant dusk among the bark-bundles which 
emitted a wholesome forest odor. She leant against the bark 
in happy silence, it would be heaven to sit thus forever. 

He feared to break the blissful silence or mar the exquisite 
peace of. the sweet face so near him. 

They were completely isolated, fenced round for the next 
hour at least by that blessed storm ; there was plenty of time, 
without spoiling that perfect moment, “ to look before and 
after, to pine for what is not.” Besides, what could express 
her love and confidence more than that silent surrender of 
herself with the instant solace that his touch so evidently 
gave. “ My bird will never escape me now,” he thought, 
“ she has fluttered home for good and all.” 

The tumult and tension of the last few* days, with the cli- 


198 


IK THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


max of nervous agony wrought by the storm, had exhausted 
her ; she only cared to be still now in the utter peace of 
Claude’s presence. In the pauses of the thunder, they could 
hear each other breathe above the prolonged hiss of the rush- 
ing rain. The fragrant nest among the bark-bundles seemed 
like a sanctuary whither no unhallowed thing could pene- 
trate. 

Rush on, blessed rain ; flash on, fierce kind lightnings ; 
crack, rumble, and roar, majestic, deep-voiced thunder, tear 
the clouds and break up the heavens in your wild exultant 
strength ; only let us be together. 

That stern resolve never again to see him, all the struggles 
and mental conflicts, the thousand reasons for avoiding him, 
fell from Jessie like a garment, and when she began to let 
some cloudlet of thought drift across the happy heaven of her 
peace, she asked herself, more moved by Claude’s eloquent 
silence than she had ever been by his words, why, after all, 
they should be parted ? Could either have any happiness 
apart from the other ? His very touch healed her. Surely 
God had brought them together and made them one. Exces- 
sive weariness is a narcotic, conscience falls asleep, the Furies 
of thought sink to rest under spells of Orphean melody, and 
the tired soul refuses to heave the stone of Sisyphus any more 
up the steep : this is the Tempter’s hour. 

All the sophisms Claude had uttered and she had combated 
about marriage, the falsity and cruelty of conventions, the 
purity of a soul union such as theirs must be, came stealing 
back, unchallenged, unresisted, with tenfold force, in that 
beautiful calm. To Claude they came also with renewed 
force, the offspring of his own brain returning no longer 
children to be moulded and controlled, but armed men to 
conquer and subdue. 

. “ You are calm now,” he said, at last, breaking the golden 
silence with reluctance, and she smiled in reply. 

“ You were ill with fright, poor child,” he added ; and then 
Jessie spoke of the nervous trouble thunder had always caused 
her. 

“ I never before was calm in a thunder-storm,” she said ; 
“ what a coward I am!” she added, with a low, tranquil 
laugh. 

A terrific crack of thunder, as if the storm, after growling 
sullenly away in the distance, had returned in renewed fury, 
drowned her laugh. 

“ No coward,” he replied. “Oh ! Jessie, do you remember 
the viper ? ” 


IJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


199 


“Ah! I was frightened then,” she returned; “ 1 thought 
people died of adder’s bites.” 

“ And you offered your life for mine. And you gave me 
something better than life, all that makes life sweet.” 

She withdrew her hand, reality broke in upon the blissful 
waking dream in which they seemed to be in some higher, 
nobler state, disembodied spirits, anything but mere mortals 
bound by strict conventions and stern moral obligations. 
‘‘No,” she said, “I brought you trouble. But we part 
friends.” 

Claude laughed, it seemed more like meeting than parting. 
“ Whither are you flying ? ” he asked, gayly. 

“ To my old school for a time to-morrow.” 

“ Who goes with you ? ” 

“ No one. I go alone by the carrier.” 

“Jessie,” he said, with emphasis, “this is a heaven-sent 
opportunity. You go with old Winstone as far as Wellow 
Cross, there you get out to pick flowers, what you will. Instead 
of following the cart, you turn up the Blackwell road, where 
you find me with a closed carriage. We catch the evening 
boat and are in France the day after to-morrow morning.” 

“ Oh ! this is madness ! ” cried Jessie ; “ you must not say 
such things, indeed, indeed! ” 

“I must,” he replied, taking her hands and speaking 
earnestly ; “ you have given me the right, you must not trifle 
with me. Child, do you think you can take a man’s heart in 
your hands and play with it, and throw it away when you have 
done with it? No. We belong to each other, Jessie ; we love 
each other with heart and soul. No power can part us. 
Trust to me, wholly ; no love is perfect without trust. Leave 
all these ethical and conventional subtleties to me. I am 
responsible to Heaven for both of us. Was not the woman 
made for the man, and only the man for God? ‘He for God 
only, she for God in him ? ’ There is no wrong in such a 
union as ours, only the purest, holiest happiness. Besides, the 
last barrier is broken down. That miserable terror of Mrs. 
Grundy cannot come between us any more. You need never 
again be afraid of what people will think.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” gasped Jessie. 

“ We have been seen. Don’t you know what they say of 
people in our — in your — in short ” 

“ Oh ! I know now too well and too late, but I did not know 
till Mr. Ingleby told me.” 

“ Ingleby told you, did he ? ” he said, darkly ; “it was like 
his confounded ” 


200 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“It was like the kind, wise friend he is,” she rejoined. 

“ A reputation is easily lost — it only means being seen with 
the wrong man ” 

All at once his meaning flashed upon her ; she said nothing, 
for sheer anguish. 

“We will go to Switzerland,” he added, “marriage laws 
are easy there.” 

“We cannot marry, you have given your father your word 
of honor,” she said, in smothered tones. 

He explained that such a marriage would probably not be 
valid in England, and was only intended as a concession to 
her scruples. “ It is not only my word of honor to marry no 
one but my cousin,” he added, “ but it is Marwell Court and 
all that goes with it ; these jolly old woods in which we have 
been so happy. And it is not for myself — ah ! Jessie, as if I 
would not give up fifty Marwell Courts for you — but think of 
my people. It would kill my father — and as for the others — • 
To be born and brought up in a place like this, a place 
belonging to history, with all sorts of family traditions and 
associations — such places don't belong to the man who 
actually owns them, but to the whole family, for whom he 
holds them in trust. One can’t play the game of life for one’s 
own hand — especially if one is an eldest son ; you see ? ” 

“ I understand — oh ! I understand so well,” said Jessie, 
brokenly, her face buried in her hands, while her arms were 
supported on her knees. I was not born for things like that 
— I should shame you. Oh ! Claude, you must marry Miss 
Lonsdale — you must forget me.” 

“ Forget you ! ” 

As he spoke he bent over her bowed head and hidden face. 
She listened and quivered, and the old arguments came back 
with fresh and ever fresh force, while the thunder rolled fit- 
fully in the distance and she did not heed it. 

All she heard or heeded was the low musical voice, the un- 
utterable Charm of the unseen presence, the immense need 
they had of each other, the supreme importance of his happi- 
ness, the impossibility of either living apart from the other. 

What was anything in comparison with* his happiness ? what 
was honor, peace of mind, heaven itself ? There was no 
heaven without him, to lose him was hell. She was his, she 
lived for him alone, had no life apart from him. What if her 
life was laid waste and spoiled for him 1 As she thought thus, 
she suddenly lifted her head and looked at him. 

He saw his advantage and followed it up by eloquence 
glowing with suppressed passion ; it seemed to Jessie that 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 201 

they were already one and could not be parted without sac- 
rilege. She thought of Shelley and Mary. 

He drew a wedding-ring from his pocket and would have 
placed it upon her trembling hand. Were they not in the 
temple of nature, he said, with the rushing rains as choristers, 
the swift lightnings as witnesses, the deep organ-notes of the 
thunder sounding their wedding symphony ? What moment 
could be fitter for their espousals? She must promise now 
and forever. 

The word struck a deep chord in her breast ; the supreme 
moment of her life had arrived. She listened to the wild 
storm-music so solemnly invoked, the rain trickling from the 
shed-roof into a pool formed by its own violence, with a sound 
that recalled the quiet music of the baffled water striving to 
climb the mill-wheel at home. Again she heard that the per- 
petually defeated water conquered by its persistence ; she saw 
it grind corn for men’s food and circle round the world in a 
wondrous, endless succession of transformation ; she saw the 
white feet of winged angels pass up the turning stair, as the 
heavenly beings floated upward ; she heard soft strains of 
spheral harmony mingled with the mill-music as in her child- 
ish dream, while in the actual far-off roll of the passing thun- 
der boomed the everlasting “ Thou shalt not,” against the 
grand simplicity of which all argument is mute. 

She rose and left the dim recess, she would have gone but 
that he detained her with gentle force. Her slight figure 
was outlined on the storm-rent sky which had now no more 
terrors for her. 

“Foolish child ! What has frightened you?” he said, with 
infinite tenderness ; “ dearest Jessie, think for a moment, don’t 
be reckless. Don’t ruin my happiness, don’t throw away my 
last hope. You are virtually bound to me, you have given 
me your love, you have broken with conventions, you are 
mine ; in different ways we have compromised each other. 
The storm unnerves you, it makes you morbid. You know 
that ours is no common bond, that we are already one in heart 
and soul ” 

“ Claude, Claude, let me go ! ” 

“You cannot, you cannot go in this storm. Stay, Jessie, 
stay, I will leave you, only stay in the shelter ; ” but she was 
off through the tangle of wet undergrowth and into the main 
road ; he followed, then stopped, knowing that further pur- 
suit would only distress her. 

Just then the rain, which had died nearly away, changed 
to a fierce crackle of hail-stones rebounding from branch to 


202 IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 

branch and denting the bare earth where they struck ; the 
storm gathered its dying energies for a final outburst. A 
blue sheet of light revealed towering cloud-masses above, 
colored the white hail-storm for a moment, and showed him 
the last glimpse of Jessie’s dress before she was engulfed in 
the double darkness of storm and forest ; and by the time he 
removed his hand from his dazzled eyes a fierce white zig-zag 
darted from heaven to earth, accompanied by a peal of re- 
verberating thunder which seemed as if it would never end. 
And Jessie was under trees in the very heart of the storm ! 

He went back to the shed and leant against the bark stacks, 
intently gazing in the direction which she had taken ; he was 
pale and had a solemn, resolute look. 

“ Whatever happens,” he said aloud, and as if calling unseen 
presences to witness, “Jessie must now be my lawful wife.” 

The long unequal duel was at an end, but the battle was 
not to the strong. 

When the storm had at last rolled away, and he had left 
his shelter, the figure of a woman issued from among the 
piles of bark not far from the refuge he had made for Jessie, 
and leant upon the rough bar which ran from pillar to pillar 
in front of the shed. 

“You will not marry Jessie,” she said, with fierce emphasis ; 
“and you will not save Marwell Court, if it can only be done 
by marrying me, my good cousin.” 

The life-time of torture she had suffered in the last hour 
had exhausted her, there were dark shadows beneath her 
deep lustrous eyes, and her lips were firmly set. 

“How can I hurt her?” she continued. “ After all death is 
a feeble vengeance. Who would have imagined that this baby- 
face could play her cards so skilfully ? Where did she learn 
how to fool men ? Who gave her this insight, this intuitive 
knowledge of their weak points ? Afraid of the storm, indeed 1 
I said she was no ordinary girl. I was right ! ” 


PART III. 


“Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 

And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.” 


CHAPTER I 

THE LAST CAMPAIGN. 

The large, airy Indian room was very still within, scarcely 
a sound reached it from without ; the bright clothing of a 
native servant was visible on the verandah, and beyond that 
trees were seen waving in the garden and the perfume of 
flowers floated in. An elderly lady in mourning, like most of 
the Feringhees in that year, reclined languidly in a long cane 
chair, doing nothing whatever, with the air of a proficient in 
the art. She was pale and slender, her hands seemed made 
of transparent ivory, if one can imagine perfectly limp ivory. 

A novel lay on a small table by her side in case she should be 
able to rouse herself to the effort of reading. 

A girl with dark hair and eyes and a rich English bloom on 
her face, yet bearing some likeness to the limp, faded, dried- 
up lady on the lounge, sat erect at a table, writing quickly 
and sometimes pausing to think, now with a deepened color 
brought by a happy passing thought, now with a smile as at 
some pleasant remembrance, sometimes even with a passing 
shudder as if at some horror. Her mother occasionally di- 
rected an irritated glance toward her and made a peevish 
movement. 

“I really wish, Ada,” she said, presently, “that somebody 
would call. There is nothing to do.” 

“ You don’t get on with the novel, mamma ? I must try to 
find another.” 

“ I can’t think how you can get through so much writing,” 
continued Mrs. Maynard, querulously; “I am sure I write << 
home as much as people write out to me, but I am not always 


204 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


scribbling. It is just like girls when first they come out. 
They think they can do as they do at home.” 

“ Oh, I am quite an old hand now,” her daughter replied, 
“ though, to be sure, this time last year I was at home. Oh ! 
that delicious dance, mamma, I little thought I should not 
have another for so long.” 

“ You are always raving about that dance, Ada, I thought 
it stupid ; I am quite tired of it. Didn’t you pick up } r oung 
Randal there, by the way?” 

“ Oh ! yes,” she returned, indifferently, “ it was rather lucky 
for me that I danced with Mr. Randal. You see, I remem- 
bered his face well, because he got a telegram to say his 
mother was dying, and I thought he was going to faint, poor 
fellow ! So that I recognized him in Gossamjee Bhose’s house 
and was able to claim acquaintance with him. With a totally 
strange officer it would have been difficult ; not knowing me, 
he might have suspected treachery.” 

“ Of course,” replied Mrs. Maynard, suppressing a yawn 
and much bored by this long and unnecessary explanation ; 
“ most romantic. I wonder how poor Arthur is getting on ? 
Your father says that Lucknow must fall before many days. 
Sir Colin has received all his reinforcements by this time and 
must begin, the siege. Rose’s account of Havelock’s arrival 
was terrible enough. I cannot imagine what Sir Colin’s re- 
lief will be like. If two thirds of his force fall nobody will be 
out of mourning.” 

Ada’s eyes darkened and her warm color paled ; her father 
and brother and Philip Randal were all before Lucknow. 

“ But Havelock’s force was so small, mamma,” she said, “ he 
and Outram were many times outnumbered. Two-thirds of 
that brave little army did not make a great number.” 

“ Nonsense, my dear. You don’t imagine the sepoys are 
less savage now than they were last September. It is ridi- 
culous to suppose that they will kill fewer English now than 
they did then. I do wish Lucknow would fall,” she added 
peevishly, as if the city held out merely to cause her personal 
inconvenience. “ Rose,” she said, as young Mrs. Maynard 
entered the room, bringing a scent of orange-blossom to add 
to that of the heavy white tuberose in Ada’s dress ; “here is 
Ada declaring that Sir Colin will take the whole of Lucknow 
with less loss than Havelock did the Residency.” 

“Less in proportion to the whole, mamma.” 

“ Oh, dear ! dear ! You confuse my brain talking like a 
question in a sum-book.” 

“ We shall know the proportion soon enough, perhaps too 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


205 


soon,” said Rose, sinking into a lounging-ckair, playing with 
her spray of orange-blossom, and reflecting that they might 
both be widows by that time. 

“ They are such splendid troops,” broke in Ada, cheerfully, 
“ and so fresh. Not like our poor Lucknow garrison. He said 
that the Ninety- third ” 

“ Who said ? ” 

Ada colored and Rose smiled. “ You mean Arthur, Ada, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ I mean Mr. Randal,” she replied, with a little defiance. 

“ I am sick and tired of that everlasting young man ; 
I wish I might never hear his name again,” observed Mrs. 
Maynard. 

“ Then, mamma, it is of no use asking if you have any mes- 
sage for him, as I was about to do,” said Ada, drawing little 
pictures on her blotting-paper. 

“ Surely you have not been writing to that young Randal 
in this heat ever since tiffin ? ” cried Mrs. Maynard, startled 
into faint animation at last; “Ada, I will not permit it. 
Such a correspondence is most improper, quite out of the 
question.” 

Ada meekly represented that she had only written once be- 
fore, so that it could scarcely be called a correspondence. 
Common civility required that she should write to thank Mr. 
Randal for his help and protection during the march from 
the Dilkoosha, not to speak of his assistance in bringing her 
from Beelampore and through the rebel lines to Lucknow. 
And if Mr. Randal had been so very kind as to write and tell 
her how things were going on at the Alumbagh, and all about 
the Cawnpore battles, and why Sir Colin did not begin the 
actual siege till now, and report upon the health of her father 
and brother, surely it was only what might be permitted to a 
gentleman who had accidentally been on such intimate terms 
as their dangerous flight necessitated. 

“ I think it great impertinence of him to presume upon the 
accidental intimacy,” said her mother ; “ all sorts of strange 
adventures have happened during the Mutiny, everything has 
been topsy-turvy ; proprieties have been neglected, sadly 
neglected.” 

“ We certainly were not over-ceremonious at Lucknow,” 
Rose broke in. “ I washed Mr. Randal’s shirt — he had but 
one, which was more than poor Arthur had at one time — and 
he fetched water for me ; and Ada made a jumper for an offi- 
cer of engineers, who was killed in it ” 

“The engineer officer, I am certain,” interrupted Mrs. 


206 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Maynard, not catching the last phrase, “ will never presume 
upon what Ada did. But this young Randal must fully un- 
derstand that the intimacy is never to be resumed. And 
what is it to yon whether the chief is waiting for Jung Balm- 
door and his Groorkhas or not? Military matters are for 
your papa and brothers — ladies should know nothing about 
them. You will of course bow to Mr. Randal if you should 
meet him, as I hope you will not. If,” she added, plain- 
tively, “ there should ever be any dances or picnics or any- 
thing proper any more, you will neither dance with or even 
speak more than is necessary to him.” 

“ While I live,” replied Ada, very quietly and gently, “ I shall 
be grateful to Mr. Randal ; I shall show my gratitude when- 
ever I can. I am his friend for life.” 

“ Rose ! ” cried Mrs. Maynard, appealing to her daughter- 
in-law in helpless dismay, “ what does she mean?” 

“ She only means,” replied Rose, “ that she is very grateful, 
as I am, to Mr. Randal, for his kindness to us and the chil- 
dren, and that she is not yet old or experienced enough to ex- 
press herself in a becoming manner about it. She is roman- 
tic, as girls are, and exaggerates what, after all, was only to be 
expected from any gentleman to people in such circumstances 
as ours. At her age, every pleasant new acquaintance is a 
friend for life — until another comes. Pray give my kind 
remembrance to Mr. Randal, if you really think it necessary 
to write to him, Ada. Tell him that I do not forget his kind- 
ness to us, and that little Emmie still talks of him.” 

“ There is no occasion whatever to write ; tear up your 
letter, this instant, Ada,” said her mother, with unusual en- 
ergy ; “ what possible reason can you have for writing?” 

“He is in danger,” she replied, with a slight catch in her 
voice. “They all like to get letters, you know, ever such a 
stupid thing brightens them up. Besides, Sir Colin says that 
it is of the highest importance that the troops should be kept 
in good spirits,” she added, with a demure countenance which 
belied a certain wicked sparkle in her eyes. 

“ Danger, indeed, and pray what business is that of yours ? ” 
returned Mrs. Maynard. “What have you to do with the 
spirits of the troops? Rose, what are you laughing at? I 
should have thought, with your husband at the front and 
your children so recently lost, and Lucknow about to fall, you 
had little cause to laugh.” 

“It is unreason that makes people laugh, mamma,” re- 
turned Ada. “ Surely you won’t grudge poor Mr. Randal 
such a small thing as a letter just before the storming of 


IJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 207 

Lucknow ? Iam now writing to wish liim good luck,” slie 
added, coaxingly. 

“It is not worth a fuss,” said Rose to her mother-in-law ; 
“in the first place, it is uncertain if the letter will ever he 
delivered ; and in the second, we don’t know who may fall 

before Lucknow ” she paused, and tears came into the 

eyes of all three women; “and Ada only means, as I 
said ” 

“ I meant what I say,” Ada replied, with her quiet manner 
and distinct intonation. “ They have only been holding the 
Alumbagh and the lines during the last three months except 
when they took Cawnpore, and have not lost many men, but 
the assault of Lucknow will be no child’s play. How can I 
let my friend go into such an action without a word of kind- 
ness, and he with no friend nearer than England?” 

So saying, Ada deliberately folded and sealed her letter, 
and with a quivering lip and eyes like two stars in a frosty 
night, rose and walked slowly from the room with an air of 
proud determination that Mrs. Maynard feared. 

“ Rose, is it true that this wretched boy rose from the 
ranks?” she asked, when Ada and her letter were gone with 
the tuberose scent, “and you think Ada cares for him ?” 

“ It is quite true, and he has no relations and doesn’t even 
know his father’s name. But he is gentlemanly and stead}', 
and is considered a promising officer. As for Ada caring for 
him, you know what nonsensical ideas she has about men 
friends. She would insist upon kissing that poor lad whose 
legs were shot off at Lucknow, and wrote to tell his mother 
of it.” 

“ That was of no consequence, for no one could marry a 
man with no legs, even if he hadn’t died, my dear.” 

“True, but this young fellow is to Ada’s mind in much the 
same case, though his legs have proved of the greatest service 
both to her and me. But Ada is wilful and makes the more 
of her friendship the more you go against her. Then she 
has such a horror of anything underhand that she always 
makes the worst of everything she does.” 

“ I feel,” sighed Mrs. Maynard, “that she is too eccentric 
for any man. If I could but get her safely married. Though 
even marriage is of little use in these dreadful days, since 
both Emily and Mabel are coming back widows, married to 
civilians though they were, and such trousseaux ! ” 

Mrs. Maynard paused and thought what a fine opportunity 
was here for Providence to dispose of ineligible and super- 
fluous men like Philip Randal and her sons’ senior officers, 


208 


IN' THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


while carefully guarding eligibles and her immediate family 
circle. But Providence did not seem to see things from Mrs. 
Maynard’s point of view. 

“It was not worth while to tell Ada,” said young Mrs. 
Maynard, “but as Mr. Randal’s company has already left the 
Alumbagh, and the Dilkoosha is actually taken, it is most im- 
probable that he will ever get this wonderful letter, or have 
time to read it if he does.” 

But Philip did receive the letter, and read it in all the tu- 
mult of the grand assault upon Lucknow, or rather series of 
assaults, for the city was taken piece-meal, stronghold after 
stronghold. 

When he returned from escorting the Lucknow fugitives 
to Allahabad in November and took up his quarters in the 
camp at the Alumbagh, all the charm of military life and the 
excitement of the great enterprise seemed to have evapo- 
rated. The monotony of camp routine seemed as profitless 
as unendurable, contributing nothing to the grand final re- 
sult. There was no more fun in the hardships and vicissi- 
tudes now ; making forays upon friendly but timid natives ; 
seizing their cart-loads of provisions with a pretence of force, 
and smuggling payment into their hands so that their hos- 
tile compatriots should not detect them, was a stale joke. 
There was good fighting to be had from time to time when 
Ahmed Oollali tried to force their lines and cut off their com- 
munications, but even that was inspiriting only for a time, 
and made the camp monotony only seem heavier afterward. 
Philip was rallied upon his low spirits and accused of home- 
sickness by secret sufferers from the same malady. 

But though he sometimes persuaded himself that he was 
yearning for the gray cool skies, wind-swept downs and green 
meadows of England, and truly would have been heartily 
glad for a glimpse of Jessie’s sweet face and the cool touch 
of her lips on his cheek ; he knew too well that India held 
the romance and poetry of his life, and that he was pining 
for a glance from Ada Maynard’s dark velvety eyes and the 
thrilling music of her voice and laugh — such a laugh : low, 
rich, heart-easing, and such a voice ; pure and flexible, with a 
certain timbre that woke indefinable feelings. 

The Hindoo songs she sang in their wanderings ran in his 
head, and the soft crooning lullaby with which she hushed 
the ailing child could not be forgotten. Her face in her va- 
rious disguises was always rising unbidden before him, but 
especially her face as he had seen it at the end of the march 
from Lucknow at the railway station, with little Willie’s face 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


209 


just beneath it, with her star-like eyes shining through tears 
in a long, earnest, wistful gaze. 

How could he ever forget that face, or cease to long for a 
sight of it ? Yet he knew that he must forget that face, or 
cease to long for a sight of it. Yet he knew that he must 
forget. There was no need to fly from her since it was so im- 
probable that he would ever see her again. This very im- 
probability gave him a sort of plenary indulgence to think a 
little of her sometimes, and recall their adventures more than 
he would have done had there been any hope. It is not only 
lawful but right to mourn over a new-made grave and muse 
a little upon what can never be again, and the Alumbagh was 
so dull, and offered such temptations to long brooding mem- 
ories. 

Yet when Miss Maynard’s graceful and friendly letter of 
thanks and pleasant reminiscences arrived, he was not so very 
much surprised ; the camp routine seemed cheerful, and the 
well-worn jokes of his surviving brother officers (for a com- 
rade’s death was a too common incident) fresh and amusing, 
though, as one cheery young fellow said, if they did not make 
their jokes see a good deal of service they would have to do 
without any. This letter had the curious effect of making 
him add a couple of closely-written pages to a letter he had 
already written to Jessie, whose continually repeated desire 
to leave the neighborhood of Cleeve and seek remunerative 
employment elsewhere, seemed to him, compared to the grim 
realities surrounding him, but as the vague discontent of a 
spoiled child, and like that to be caressed and teased away. 

“ I can never be too thankful,” he wrote in that very letter, 
which was dated Christmas, “ that you are surrounded by 
people who know all about us, and are with Mrs. Plummer, 
your nearest relation. I don’t think I could stay in India if 
I thought you were alone among strangers.” 

Nothing could be more correct and impersonal than 
Philip’s acknowledgment of Ada’s letter. It was the more 
kind of her to write, he said, because she knew what a boon 
a letter w r as in camp, and how excessively hard up they were 
for amusement. He thought she might like to hear from an 
outsider how her people were faring, together with the ex- 
periences of his detachment of the 190th, and as much as he 
could hear or see of the progress of military affairs in gen- 
eral. Therefore, he ventured to write, and remained, very 
truly, hers. 

Considering it was such a short letter, it w T as amazing that 
so proficient a scribe as Philip should have taken so many 
14 


210 


JiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


days to write it and wasted so much precious paper in rough 
copies of it. 

The second letter reached him on the eve of the great 
decisive day, when so many strongholds fell, and a part of his 
regiment, with some Sikhs, having turned the second line of 
defence, insisted, in the heat of victory, in rushing on to the 
citadel and turning the third and last line, after which they 
broke out, regardless of their officers, into wild license, and 
sacked the rich houses and palaces near, burning and destroy- 
ing whatever they could lay hands on in their madness. 

He found time to read it, and all through the long day of 
fierce, often hand-to-hand, fight, the thought of it hovered 
about him, and Ada’s face, sometimes as he saw it at the ball, 
sometimes as it appeared in his room in Gossamjee Bhose’s 
house, as the Hindoo boy companion of the flight to Luck- 
now, sometimes as it smiled on him at the Residency, when 
the spent ball, after breaking her chair, touched her, or as it 
looked from the window of the railway carriage when they 
parted, kept tracing itself upon the background of dark-faced, 
white-dressed foes, upon flame, smoke, and blood, for there 
was no time for reflection on that grim day, and if these vi- 
sions did not “ give the battle to his hands,” they yet inspirited 
him to do gallantly. 

But LucIiuoav was not finally taken till a week later, March 
21, when the last stronghold fell and the English flag waved 
over the whole conquered city, a city of empty houses, 
deserted streets, silent bazaars, sacked and battered palaces, 
with shattered temples, wasted and trampled gardens, where 
pleasant orange-groves shed their blossoms over broken 
furniture, rich stuffs torn and soiled, and blood-stained 
corpses, and where marble fountains made a musical plash- 
ing in the ears of prowling thieves and beggars propped by 
blood-splashed statues. It was upon that awful background 
and by contrast with the dreadful work Philip had to do that 
Ada Maynard’s haunting face appeared so transcendently 
charming, and amid such scenes of horror that it was so sweet 
and comfortable to remember her letter. 


CHAPTER II. 


PARADISE. 

It was the day on which the Queen’s proclamation trans- 
ferring the company’s government and army to the crown 
was read in every station in India, November 1, 1858. Philip 
Randal, no longer a mere lieutenant of infantry, now ranked 
as captain, while holding a stall* appointment, and had recently 
arrived at the large station of Myserabad. 

He had been wounded at the end of the Roliilcunde cam- 
paign in May, passed many weeks in hospital and many more 
at the hills at Nynee Tal, to recover his sorely shattered 
health before he was fit for duty. He had received Jessie’s 
letter offering to release him from their engagement, and he 
had replied that he had no desire for the freedom she offered, 
but that lie hoped very soon to be able to send for her. He 
had also had that curious visionary experience which the 
doctor had ascribed to liome-sickness acting upon nervous 
depression. He reproached himself often for the lack of 
enthusiasm with which he regarded the pending happy con- 
summation of his engagement, but hoped that proper enthu- 
siasm would be forthcoming on the fitting occasion when he 
should look once more upon the pretty childish face, now so 
dim in his memory, and of the probable changes in which he 
did not think. Her face had naturally become dimmer in his 
memory since her picture was shattered at the relief of Luck- 
mow. He was in no position to marry, even without the pro- 
fessional ambition to which his marriage, especially his mar- 
riage with Jessie, would be a serious hindrance. It had even 
been hinted to him by some who knew, that he should, and 
with his already gained distinction could, marry into a family 


212 


IN THE HEART OF THE ft TORM. 


having high military influence. But he doubted this, for 
every day the stigma of his unknown origin became harder 
to bear. The mysterious little fortune which came to him 
after the Crimea could not, as he at first thought, possibly 
have come from the broken-down Matthew Meade, who was 
unable even to provide for his own daughter ; it must have 
come from some kinsman of his own. There must be some 
thing unusually painful in connection with his birth ; though, 
after all, the most painful thing for him was the mystery. 
Could he but say, “ My father was a rat-catcher of nomadic 
habits, a day laborer, or a rich but honest tradesman,” he 
would have something firm to stand upon. 

After the Roliilcunde campaign Mr. Cheeseman had sent 
him out a parcel which surprised and touched him greatly. 
It was a box recently discovered in a disused attic by the 
miller who succeeded Matthew Meade at Stillbrooke, and 
was ticketed in the latter’s peculiar unformed writing, “For 
Philip Randal at my death.” 

It contained the clothing of a child of three, and some 
faded age-yellowed papers. One packet was labelled, “ Philip, 
aged two years,” and enclosed a soft, short curl and an ivory 
miniature of a plump, laughing, baby boy. The papers and 
relics were labelled in Matthew Meade’s faded handwriting, 
“ Given as the late Mary Randal’s property, by her landlady 
Mrs. Roberts, 24 Brook Street, Chichester. September, 1838.’* 

They were contained partly in a small leather desk, partly 
in a handsome morocco-bound diary. In the desk was a wed- 
ding-ring. With it was a keeper set with brilliants and en- 
graved with the initials M. & A. M. One or two shabby 
books with the name torn out, or obliterated so as to only 
leave “Mary,” were among the relics, also a once costly 
housewife with gold thimble and scissors. 

The diary contained no names, only initials. Many leaves 
had been torn out. “Many people,” one passage ran, 
“ would think my strong desire for concealing my darling’s 
identity if not morbid, over-strained, since I have at present 
so little prospect of finding him bread. But God will surely 
pity our misery and protect my innocent and deeply wronged 
child. I will work my fingers to the bone before I will risk 
his discovering his infamous parentage, and I am so young 
and strong that I must get work.” “ The money will soon 
be gone and no work.” 

Other passages ran thus : “ This terrible isolation would 
turn my brain but for my precious boy.” — “ To-day Philip 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


213 


gave me pain, he had a look of his father. I would rather 
see the sweet little roguish face dead than bearing any trace 
of that black soul.” — “If my boy is but an artisan or day la- 
borer he may still be a gentleman at heart and an honest man.” 
— “ I fear I am ill, but I must and will get better. I cannot 
die and leave my treasure alone.” — “ Sold the ruby and dia- 
mond bracelet.” — “ F. sent £5 ; grumbled at my false name 
and at having only P. O. address, I dare not trust him fur- 
ther.” — “That love such as mine should turn to hate is 
scarcely credible, but the cause, oh ! the cause is beyond cred- 
ibility.” — “ Has not my wretched beauty brought me enough 
misery? Yet it seems against me in getting employment.” — 
“ Poems returned with thanks. Last hope gone.” — “ Fear my 
drenching will prove more expensive than taking a fly.” — 
“ Seriously ill, but hope for — ” This was the last entry, and 
the unfinished sentence and blotched blackness on the other- 
wise daintily written and clean MS. suggested the pen’s 
dropping from dying fingers. 

Among the papers not in the delicate Italian hand that 
was evidently Mary Randal’s, was one beginning “ Darling 
Mary” and ending “your own most loving A. M.” It was 
dated M. C., April, 1834, and spoke regretfully of the obstacles 
in the way of marriage with the writer, who appeared to be 
in a higher position than the evidently dowerless Mary, and 
whose father wished him to “ look higher.” It counselled 
“ patience for the present ” and a “ stolen match ” at the worst 
in the future. It was evident that poor, broken-hearted 
Mary, in spite of the horror with which she had come to re- 
gard her child’s father, who seemed to have wronged her be- 
yond the common measure of man’s iniquity, could not bring 
herself to part with this, perhaps, her first love-letter, which, 
in spite of some duplicity, had real feeling. 

Did “ M. C.” mean Marwell Court? Was it he then who 
broke her heart and crushed her youth ? If Matthew Meade 
had not died so unexpectedly, Philip would have known all. 
If he had been well born, would Matthew Meade have asked 
him to marry Jessie ? Sometimes he was tempted to think it 
hard that his adopted father should have laid this burden 
upon him, but his heart reproached him w T hen he remembered 
that good man’s constant love and kindness to the nameless 
waif lie had rescued from the workhouse. It was a love be- 
yond all the ties of kindred, a loyal and lasting friendship that 
nothing could ever daunt ; no man was ever bound to another 
by such bonds of gratitude as bound him to Matthew Meade. 


214 


IS THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


His dying glance of appeal and trust when he placed Jessie’s 
hand in his, haunted him with the biting reproach of a 
wounded conscience. Jessie was Matthew’s sole treasure, 
and it was in striving to enrich Philip that he had made her 
almost penniless. 

Philip had grace enough to see that Stillbrooke Mill was a 
wholesoiner home to be reared in than Marwell Court. What 
if Mr. Meade dined in his shirt-sleeves and the family ate 
with their knives ? These things are but conventions ; great 
Indian nobles use neither knife nor fork. 

What if Mrs. Meade’s days and nights were passed in keep- 
ing her house in the very poetry of cleanliness and order and 
bringing her dairy to an ideally perfect standard ? Are such 
occupations more debasing than those of Lady Gertrude — 
teidliug from dawn to midnight, dancing from midnight till 
(lawn, travelling from place to place in search of change, and 
caring for nothing but social pleasure and display ? 

If the Meades’ accent was provincial, their meaning was 
polite ; their vocabulary, if limited, contained good strong 
English that has slipped out of literature and higher social 
circles. Is there less vulgarity in the faulty language of 
people who know better, than in that of people who use the 
English of their parents in all innocence ? 

And who shall say that their simple, industrious, God-fear- 
ing life, and warm if silent affection, provided worse training 
for a boy’s moral nature than the combined license, tyranny, 
and temptation of a public school ? Philip, thinking of these 
things, felt that he would indeed be a traitor if he disappoint- 
ed Meade’s dying trust. 

The Mutiny was at an end, and with it that strange brief 
vision of romance which had flashed as suddenly into his life 
as this terrible revolt into that of the nation. Philip gave one 
brief, regretful thought to that sweet flower of poetry and ideal 
love which had blossomed with such beauty upon the dark 
background of war, amid scenes of such horror and anguish. 
The cruelty and carnage had passed, like a bad dream, the 
terrible time was better forgotten ; the one sweet vision, 
the brief bright moment snatched from days so dark, had 
passed away with it and must not be recalled. 

The last day of bloodshed, the day when he fell, severely 
wounded, seemed very far off ; though really little over five 
months ago — the months were like years. "His health had 
been shattered both by the long campaign and his final 
wound. This long illness, the knowledge of India acquired 
during convalescence, and the subsequent promotion, all 


Ilf THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


215 


helped to widen the gap between that time and this, and 
threw those romantic mefnories farther back into the past. 

As he was walking* along* in the cooling* evening, thinking 
of these things and cherishing a not ignoble hope of doing 
something* worth doing in that great arena, the Indian Em- 
pire, he heard the merry shout of an English child among the 
trees surrounding a bungalow, and out from the enclosure 
darted a little sunny-headed boy, while at the same time a 
rose struck Philip in the face and sprinkled him with its 
crimson leaves. 

“ Harry, Harry,” called a voice which thrilled him to the 
heart. Then a lady ran out after the truant boy who had 
cannoned against him, with her dark hair shining in the sun, 
and her face full of laughter. “ You naughty boy ! ” she was 
saying. 

She stopped at the sight of Philip, whose dark face, thor- 
oughly browned by two Indian summers, paled in the warm 
sunshine. 

“ I beg your pardon, Captain Randal,” she said, perceiving 
the rose-leaves with which she had sprinkled him. “ I was 
thinking of you only to-day when I had a letter that you may 
like to see from Gossamjee Bhose, our old friend. This is a 
little nephew. Not Willie? oh, no, Willie went home to his 
friends in the spring. It was a hard parting ; when one has 
been through so much for and with a child, you don’t know 
how one’s heart clings to him. We are all so glad of your 
promotion. My father says you have such opportunities be- 
fore you on the staff of such a man. He is in the veranda, 
and will be so glad to see you.” 

Philip scarcely knew what he said or did in the strange 
vertigo that the light blow of the rose and the sound of Ada’s 
voice brought upon him. He gathered that his coming was 
known and had been expected, and that to renew his acquain- 
tance with the Maynards was looked upon as a matter of 
course, and, like a man in a dream, followed Ada through 
an orange-grove, and past beds of sweet mignonette, white 
tuberose and other pleasant flowers, whose odors floated on 
the balmy air, and enhanced the magic of Ada’s voice and the 
glamour of her presence, till he reached the veranda, where 
Colonel Maynard was lying on a chair, reading, and Mrs. 
Maynard’s faded graces were reposing on a cane lounge. 
The sun was sinking toward the horizon in a wide blaze of 
many-colored splendor ; its purple and gold were reflected in 
the broad waters of a river flowing at the bottom of the gar- 
den, and glowed on a castle- crowned hill in the near distance. 


216 


iiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Far off, beyond a wide rich plain, was a range of amethystine 
hills seeming comparatively near in the clear sunny air. 

“Yes, we were talking of you this morning,” Colonel May- 
nard said when Ada had explained his presence, and he had 
been introduced to the widowed daughter, Mrs. Ross, one or 
two children, the young ensign son, Wilmot, a tame mon- 
goose, and a young pet bear rolling about in the sunshine. 

“You will show Gossamjee Bhose’s letter, Ada, my dear. 
Ada does not forget her perilous flight, ” he added, when she 
was gone for the letter, “though indeed — ” he broke off 
abruptly. 

Philip understood that he was thinking, like so many others, 
that the less those dark days were remembered the better, 
especially for Ada, whom the flight placed in an aw'kward 
position. When Ada returned wdtli the letter she handed him 
a white rose with it ; “to make up for my rough salute,” she 
said, graciously. He looked up at the slim yet stately figure 
and caught the smile of conscious condescension which seemed 
so fit for her sex and youth and beauty, and his heart grew 
faint at the distance between them. She had grown even 
taller, and her beauty had rapidly matured in that w r arm cli- 
mate, though he could not know that her moral development 
under the stimulus of so much trouble and danger had kept 
pace with the physical. Nearly a year had elapsed since the 
flight to Allahabad, yet he felt that a whole age lay between 
the comradeship of those perilous days and the stately cor- 
diality of these more conventional times. 

He had not been five minutes with the Maynards before 
an indescribable something in their manner, and especially in 
Mrs. Maynard’s, told him that he had risen very considerably 
in the w r orld since his first acquaintance with them ; nor did 
the visit end without some slight but well-timed allusions to 
the bloody field of Bareilly, on which he had so greatly dis- 
tinguished himself, and to his deed of successful daring at 
the final siege of Lucknow, just enough to deepen the color 
on his face, which had now the true Indian tint and the spare, 
almost dried appearance of the Anglo-Indian, but not enough 
to embarrass. He was no longer “ that WTetched boy ” of 
Mrs. Maynard’s apprehension. Setting apart his promotion 
and distinction, he now looked older than his age, appeared 
taller from his loss of flesh, and his grave demeanor. The 
provincial accent and the solecisms incidental to his home- 
spun breeding and passage through the ranks, had long since 
disappeared ; he w T as made of the metal that takes a fine 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


217 


polish ; his dark gray eyes glowed with the fire of a richer 
intellect, his square forehead had a firmer set, a heavy mus- 
tache concealed a stronger mouth. When he was gone. 
Colonel Maynard pronounced him a soldierly looking man, 
Mrs. Ross said that he had an air of distinction, Mrs. May- 
nard phrophesied that he would be a social success. Ada said 
nothing, but looked down at the gambols of the pet bear at 
her feet, with a happy quiver about the corners of her mouth 
and a happy glow deepening her veiled eyes. 

Some weeks of dreamlike enchantment flew by. Philip 
met Ada at various station gayeties, and also found himself a 
welcome guest at the Maynards’. He was there discovered 
to have a good but untrained baritone voice, which was too 
great an acquisition in the limited station society not to be 
brought out and pressed into service by the daughters of the 
house. Wilmot wanted help in his Hindustanee and Sans- 
krit studies, in which Philip had made great progress during 
his long convalescence, and which he now still further prose- 
cuted with Ada and her brother. 

There was, of course, no allusion to the flight to Lucknow ; 
that incident, even though it did occur amid so many of a 
similar character, and at a time when bare life at most could 
be preserved, was still too compromising to Ada to be a pleas- 
ant topic. The Bhose family were indeed often discussed, 
but always with a tacit reserve touching their connection 
with them ; a reserve that, being mutual, constituted a secret 
bond between Philip and Ada, the consciousness of which 
when their glances met sometimes sent a keen thrill through 
Philip and caused Ada’s sensitive mouth to quiver so faintly 
that lie only saw it. 

The rose that struck his face so suddenly that afternoon 
was like a magician’s wand, changing all his life ; admission 
to that sacred enclosure, with its palm-groves, its scents of 
lime and orange flowers, the enchantment of its tuberose per- 
fumes, its tranquil coolness, and the glowing splendors of 
sunset over all, was like a sudden admission to Paradise. 
Think what it must be when treading some dusty highway 
after a hot and tiring pilgrimage with a mind revolving the 
prose of every-day duties, all of a sudden to see the shining 
portals of Paradise rolled back, to be led in by the magic of 
an angel melody, to see the great river roll its splendor be- 
tween the blossomed banks, to breathe the odors, to hear the 
music, to taste the golden fruit. Surely all the noises of the 
excluded world would die away, and even the thunders of 


218 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


conscience might roll unheeded in the dark forgotten dis- 
tance. 

So it was with Philip ; for a while he was dazed and spell- 
bound. He could not help meeting her in that limited soci- 
ety, and going to the house often seemed to be a safeguard 
against keener, more ethereal emotions. And when the 
distant thunder-roll of conscience did make itself faintly 
heard, he took refuge in the distance between them, and 
especially in her changed bearing toward him. The impul- 
siveness of the frank girl in the ball-room, the friendly candor 
of the days of peril, had given way to the dignified conde- 
scension he remarked when she conferred the white rose 
upon him, as a princess might confer some order of knight- 
hood. In the reading and singing at home, and in the danc- 
ing or talking in society, the princess manner was never 
dropped ; she w r as sweet and genial, but always condescend- 
ing. 

The fascination of the East had taken Philip’s imagination 
as it had taken Ada’s ; and more than this fascination, the 
deep interest which both had in those dusky, graceful people 
with their ancient civilization and religions, their venerable 
literature, picturesque histories and customs, bound them to- 
gether, and many an earnest conversation did the quartet, 
Ada, her father and brother and Philip, hold upon Indian 
history, tradition, and literature, and upon the destiny and 
duty of England in the peninsula during those brief paradi- 
saic w'eeks. 

“ I cannot imagine what your father can see in those horrid 
natives,” Mrs. Maynard frequently said to her daughter Ma- 
bel ; “ especially after they have shown themselves such 
fiends. As for Ada, it is positively unwomanly of her to mix 
in such conversation. She is nearly twenty, and will never 
marry anybody else, I suppose.” By which else Mrs. Ross 
understood her mother to signify Captain Randal, who was 
at least good enough for a girl who had reached years so ma- 
ture without so much as an engagement. “ She has overstood 
her market,” her mother elegantly observed. 

, “Ada might do worse than take Randal,” Colonel Maynard 
said to his wife in a moment of confidence. “You see, my 
dear, if it got wind, that Beelampore business would be awk- 
ward. As you say, twenty is a great age in India. Ada has 
snubbed so many men ; besides, this young fellow will rise. 
He has not only talent and character, but has been lucky 
enough to get himself recognized in the right quarter. Lord 
Blank has taken him up and means to make use of him. As 


IJST THE HEART OF THE STORM. 219 

for birth, Ada has that ; besides, grandfathers have gone out 
of fashion.” 

‘ : But people at least have fathers still,” urged Mrs. May- 
nard, whose own father was a nineteenth baronet. 

“ Not necessarily ; with talent and luck the want of a fath- 
er rather enhances a man’s personal distinction.” 

“ But he has neither family, interest, nor money,” sighed 
Mrs. Maynard. 

“ He has at least no family hindrances, and Lord Blank’s 
interest is omnipotent. As for money, enough will come. 
Besides, my dear, Ada will never marry at all, unless she has 
her own way about it.” 

“True ; and to be an old maid in India is too terrible a 
disgrace,” Mrs. Maynard sorrowfully agreed. 

Philip knew very well that Lieutenant-Colonel the Hon. 
Lionel Maynard, B. A., was an earl’s son and brother, and he 
knew all about the nineteenth baronet, but he did not know 
how little money in jnoportion to his numerous children the 
colonel had, and what an article of faith it had become with 
both parents to get their numerous daughters married. He 
thought himself too unsuitable to be considered dangerous, 
and supposed that the Maynards deemed him as harmless a 
companion for their daughter as the pet bear ; nor did it ever 
occur to him that Princess Ada, whose repute in the station 
was that of a most high and mighty damsel, would ever con- 
descend from her high estate to him, even if he dared lay 
siege to her heart, so far even as to try to carry the outworks 
of that lofty and impregnable maiden citadel./’ . 

In the meantime he did not write to bid Jessie come out ; 
he felt that he must first shake off this poetic fascination. 
That kind of love was doubtless inevitable, but its indulgence 
was not for one so bound in honor and duty as was he. He 
refused to sing love songs, would rather not hear them, and 
disparaged all love lyrics and idyls. Someone had lent him 
“Maud” during his early convalescence, and he could not put 
it down. For Maud always had Ada’s eyes and voice and 
manner. It was Ada who came out “ in gloss of satin and 
glimmer of pearls” to the waiting lover in the rose garden ; 
Ada who was “made my Maud from her first sweet breath 
Ada “ made my Maud with that long lover’s kiss ; ’’Ada, whose 
beautiful voice was heard “ singing of love and of honor that 
cannot die.” So it was with Romeo and Juliet. Ada 
came out on the balcony instead of Juliet and feared the lark. 
“ The Song of Songs ” expressed his own ethereal pain of 
yearnings that must be conquered. “ My Pretty Jane ” was 


220 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Ada, so was the “Maid of Athens.” So with all love songs, 
love lyrics and tales, they brought Ada before him and must 
be renounced. Only the tranquil affection that comes of duty 
and long association could ever be his. So he reasoned until 
the gates of Paradise suddenly flashed open and caught him 
in on that early November evening. 


CHAPTER IH. 


A LETTER FROM HOME. 

Philip was riding slowly home one evening after a duty 
visit to a distant village, liis horse was tired, so he rode with 
a loose rein absorbed in such thoughts as that kind of motion 
favors. He was expecting, even dreading, though he did 
not like to own it, a letter from home ; this mad dream must 
end then. He had just received a hint that he might be in- 
trusted with a mission taking him from Myserabad for weeks 
or months. Besides the prospect of advancement this af- 
forded him, it would take him from temptations which daily 
and hourly became more powerful ; so he was both sorry 
and glad. Suddenly the sound of clattering hoofs and the 
startled cries of some native attendants roused him from his 
reverie, and turning, he saw a runaway horse, ridden by a lady, 
thundering along the road toward him. The horse’s mane 
and the lady’s hair streamed on the wind of their furious 
speed, the rider sat well and was pulling with all her might. 
He had but time to recognize in the pale face, flashing eye, 
and firm-set mouth, the features so seldom absent from his 
mind, when the clashing of elephant bells was heard, and the 
richly caparisoned elephant of a native nobleman, preceded 
by servaaits and carrying a gay howdali on its mountain of a 
back, issued from the shadow of some tall trees concealing 
a bend of the road and caused Miss Maynard’s mare, which 
was new to India and terrified at these walking castles, to 
swerve violently and leap a low stone wall by the roadside. 

Philip, who had stopped petrified at first sight of the runa- 
way and was close by at the swerve and leap, could hear the 
mare’s hoofs strike on the wall and the heavy double crash of 
her fall as her liind-quarters rose to the jump. 

He turned in his saddle with sick apprehension, then 
sprang down and cleared the wall, on the other side of which 
the ground sloped steeply, and saw the mare struggling to 
her feet at the bottom of the little declivity, to which she had 
slid in her struggles after her tumble. 

Ada lay at the foot of a tree ; he supposed her head must 


222 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


have struck it in the fall. A red mist came before his eyes, 
he hastened blindly to her side. Her hat had fallen off, her 
face was quite white, her head slightly drooping to one shoulder, 
her arms were flung helplessly, one above her head the other 
abroad downward, the wild hair mingled with them ; she did 
not stir a limb, she seemed not to breathe ; he thought she 
was dead. 

He knelt down and raised her in his trembling arms, feel- 
ing her pulse and vaguely observing that there w’as no blood 
on her, nor any sign of broken bones. He called her by her 
name and kissed her, and it seemed to him that some time 
must have elapsed before there was a little sign, a faint quiver, 
then he saw the dark eyes open. 

She raised her head and made an effort to rise, his firm 
clasp relaxed, and with a little help she stood on her feet and 
moved and felt her arms. 

“Oh ! there is nothing the matter,” she said, with a smile 
and a gradual return of color. “ But you, you look so pale 
and strange. I am so confused and giddy. My head.” 

“ Sit down, you are hurt,” he cried. Then he placed her 
gently on the ground with her back against the tree, and 
knelt by her side and fanned her with his cap. 

Their servants had in the meantime come up, water was 
fetched, the runaway horse caught and brought back, and 
Ada, who had been exhausted by her long struggle with the 
mare, and stunned by a blow which raised a small swelling on 
her head, gradually became herself again. 

“ I do think I must be a kind of cat,” she said, laughing, 
and looking up with a sort of shy confidence that he had 
never seen before. “ I alwaj^s come to life again, whatever 
happens ! ” 

“ Why will you ride that beast,” he complained, “ she is not 
fit to carry a lady.” 

“ She is a darling. A Hindoo procession frightened her 
and the elephant drove her distracted. Colleen Bawn is 
afraid of elephants.” 

He took care to have the saddle transferred from the dar- 
ling’s back to that of his own tired horse, when he found that 
Ada intended to ride home, and himself mounted the Colleen 
Bawn, who was too much blown for any more cantrips. Ada 
made no objection to this arrangement, allowed him to lift 
her into the saddle and adjust her habit, which he did with- 
out looking up, and when this was done, and he was on the 
runaway, they started homeward at a walk, in the last rays of 
the sinking sun. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


223 


They rode about a mile and a half in silence, broken only 
once or twice by Philip’s inquiries if she was warm enough, 
for the air was sharpening ; if the motion hurt her, all of which 
he did with a certain air of compunction, as if he had been 
the cause of the accident ; and to which Ada replied in a low 
tone, as if confiding secrets that must reach no other ear. 

The ride seemed unending, and yet the dark trees of the 
Maynards’ compound became visible with too cruel quickness ; 
when he heard her low replies it was like heaven, and yet he 
hesitated to speak from a terror of hearing her voice. 

The swift-coming Indian night had already fallen when 
they drew rein before the veranda, so that they could scarce- 
ly see each other. 

“I must lift you,” he said, when she would have taken his 
hand to spring ; “you must not risk any jar.” 

Then she passed in without any good-niglit, and while the 
syces were again changing the saddles, Philip explained to 
Colonel Maynard why he had been riding the Colleen, and 
then rode off on his own horse. 

He sat still in his room for some time, not even trying to 
shake off the intoxication of the last hour. Why should he ? 
It would have to be got rid of soon enough, and it was some- 
thing to have lived that hour. 

Home letters had arrived ; he was in no hurry to open 
them ; was there not a life-time to consider them in, and only 
this one brief hour to taste the exhilarating sparkles of that 
one draught of deepest happiness in ? Why, he had held her 
like a child, in his arms, had kissed her unrebuked — but one 
hour since, and must the chill, hard agony of duty come so 
soon between them ? His hands still thrilled with the an- 
guished pleasure of touching the thick tresses of dark hair, 
when helping her to gather the disordered mass together, 
and his heart still ached with the reproachful memory this 
soft touch called up of the day of his father’s funeral, when 
Jessie covered his face with the golden mantle of her own curl- 
ing hair, and comforted him in his need. And Jessie and he 
were alone in the world, together, now as then, bound forever 
by a solemn promise to dying ears. 

The unopened letters lay on the table before him, their 
white faces offering a perpetual mute reproach ; but the low 
rich sounds of Ada’s voice were still in his ears, and he still 
felt the throb of her returning life beneath his hand ; he 
buried his face in his hands and saw the long eyelashes slowly 
parting and the wonder of the dark eyes in the sudden flash 
of returning consciousness. She looked so happy. He would 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM 


22J 

give the whole world that Ada should not love him, and yet 
it would be like death to know she did not. At last he 
plucked his hot face from his hands, pushed back his ruffled 
hair and stood up. The letters were few, there was none 
from Jessie, and he was glad, he would feel like a traitor if 
he read a letter of hers just then. They were business letters, 
some on Jessie’s account, one on his own, he read them stu- 
diously, hoping to cool the fever that consumed him. The 
last was from a friend, it had the Marwell post-mark, and w 7 as 
in Mr. Ingleby’s handwriting. 

“Old Ingle by,” he cried, “if he were but here for one 
half-hour ! ” 

Yet what would Mr. Ingleby think if he could see into his 
heart? Many a time he had asked his advice, both as boy and 
man, from the days -when he . went to tea in Mr. Ingleby’s 
rooms and wondered to see a grown man eat so many slices 
of bread and jam, until the landlady one day told him it was 
because he had given his dinner away to some poor man or 
woman, and grumbled that there was no pleasure in looking 
after the comforts of such a discomfortable gentleman. He 
opened the letter, foreboding no evil, and read : 

“ Dear Randal : You will wonder why in the w r orld I am 
writing to you, and when you have discovered the reason per- 
haps will wonder why I did not write before, unless, indeed, 
you rate me a meddler in other men’s concerns.” 

He read on and turned red, still on and turned pale, and 
when he had finished, his face was gray and contracted in 
lines of pain. 

His blood throbbed in his ears with a dull sound like the 
old familiar throb, throb of the mill, he saw the dark water 
break to diamond-dust in the slow wheel, smelt the homely 
scent of corn and meal, saw the kind faces in the sunshine 
and firelight, and remembered all the pleasant peace of his 
youth. The yearning, unspoken tenderness, as of some dumb 
animal, in Matthew Meade’s eyes, seemed to follow him every- 
where through all those boyish scenes, the mingled appeal 
and trust in his dying eyes stabbed him to the heart with 
perpetual poignancy ; again he felt the tremulous fingers re- 
lax their hold on the clasped hands of Jessie and himself, and 
chill his marrow with their icy touch. How young, how 
utterly alone and defenceless Jessie -was ! And he had not 
understood the half-articulate cry in her letters. He would 
read that last letter offering release again. But he could 
not ; he had torn it up. 


ik The heart of the storm. 


225 


Yet lie liad not torn up Ada Maynard’s last letter before 
Lucknow, though it was quite illegible, darkly-stained as it 
was with blood. 

There was no sleep for him that night, a great part of 
which he spent in writing letters and arranging papers and 
things of value. 

Nor did Ada Maynard sleep much ; she was too happy, and 
the necessity of living over the day’s events was too imperi- 
ous. Philip’s face bending over her, the gray eyes wide with 
terror and alight with love, painted itself perpetually on the 
dark curtain of the night. She had seemed to pass, with the 
shock of her fall, out of the limits of life into the illimitable 
shadow of nothingness ; whence she was called back by the 
stormy expression of a strong, deep love, to find herself 
cradled like an infant in loving arms, enfolded and supported 
in utter helplessness and peace in the power and tenderness 
of a great and enduring passion. It seemed to her fancy 
that life would never have returned to her but for the mag- 
netic potency of that other strong young life upon it ; the 
deep pulsations of the heart on which she rested seemed to 
have set her own arrested pulses beating afresh, the charm of 
the fairy prince’s kiss had awakened her from the sleep of 
death. 

“ Young Randal seems to be Ada’s good genius,” her father 
said ; “ he is always on the spot in the nick of time.” 

“ There is evidently a fate in it, Ada,” Mrs. Ross added ; 
and even Mrs. Maynard murmured something about romance, 
mingled with an interdict on Ada’s riding any more without 
her father’s brother — which she had only done that day in 
consequence of Wilmot’s failing to turn up at the appointed 
hour. 

Would Philip appear at the ruined temple to which they 
were to make a party that day ? was Ada’s first thought on 
waking and rising with the earliest peep of dawn. He had 
been asked to join them and had promised to ride over in the 
afternoon, if not on duty, as he knew he would be in the 
early part of the day. She hoped he would not come, and 
yet she knew that she would be grievously disappointed if he 
did not. 

They set forth in the beautiful cool morning, intending to 
reach their destination before the midday heat, although at 
this season it might well be borne, and by salamanders like 
Philip Randal, enjoyed. Ada’s ayah had never known her 
mistress so concerned about her dress before ; first one gown 
tried and then another, this ribbon was taken and that 
15 


was 


226 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


discarded, flowers were chosen and then thrown away, because 
they would be faded before noon. But when these cere- 
monies were at last ended and Ada hastened, a little late, 
through the garden to the water side, where their little 
yacht was awaiting them, it was not the neat fresh morning 
costume just received from home that caused Mrs. Maynard 
to exclaim : 

“ Really, Ada, I had no idea that hat and dress were so be- 
coming ! ” but some spiritual cause, which at once fired and 
etlierealized her face. 

She received the attentions of attendant cavaliers with 
rather more of the accustomed hauteur which at once 
charmed and provoked them, and caused more spiteful things 
to be said of her than of anybody in Myserabad, especially by 
a certain young civilian who was considered the most eligible 
bachelor at the station ; she grew more and more preoccu- 
pied as the day wore on. Tiffin was served and eaten, and 
wise and elderly people rested in the shade to admire the 
prospect and smoke ; the foolish young ones went off in twos 
and threes to explore the ruins or stroll by the water. 

“ He is not coming,” she said to herself, declining to join 
any of these small parties and taking a chair by the side of 
her mother, who was made up in a comfortable lounge for a 
graceful, and as she trusted imperceptible, siesta inside one 
of the tents that had been erected by servants sent on before. 
But she listened still, and soon the color flashed over her face, 
her heart began the rapid drum music young hearts make at 
such times, and she drew a little closer to her now sleeping 
mother, as she heard the quick canter of a horse echo from 
the road and over the turf, and wished he had not come, and 
wondered why she had been so stupid as not to wander away 
with the others. 

And yet when Philip had dismounted, given his horse to a 
servant, and walked to the encampment, speaking to the wise 
and sometimes drowsy lingerers in the shade as he passed 
them, Miss Maynard chanced, singularly enough, to be just 
issuing from the tent with that calm and unembarrassed air 
which is expected of ladies on social occasions, and he of 
course stopped to speak to her. 

“I was staying with mamma, but she is gone to sleep,” she 
said, in the low liquid tones which so charmed him ; “ the 
rest are exploring the temple.” 

‘‘Come with me,” he replied, “I came on the chance of 
seeing you alone. Let us find some place where we shall not 
be interrupted.” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM . 


227 


The princess air became apparent in the glance Miss May- 
nard directed upon Philip’s haggard face and down-bent, 
preoccupied eyes, when it softened into a gentle smile and 
she reflected that a soldier — a really great soldier — as Captain 
Randal was one day to be, might be brusque even on such an 
occasion as this. 

“Have you seen the waterfall?” she returned. “It would 
be pleasant there to-day. I don’t want to climb over all the 
ruins after yesterday’s bruising and jolting. I feel as if I had 
had a good beating.” 

“ Ah ! yes,” he returned, abstractedly, “it was a nasty fall ; 
yes.” 

“ The fall was unpleasant,” she said, with a demure air, re- 
flecting upon the agreeable manner in wdiich she had been 
picked up, and they walked silently on, skirting the rocky 
eminences on which the ancient temple was built and passing 
beneath some trees which grew down to the water’s edge, 
where their yacht lay at anchor, passed and repassed by 
native boats plying up and down the broad river in the bright 
sunshine. The rich level country spreading beyond the 
further bank was now only caught in glimpses through tree- 
trunks and beneath canopies of leaves, a flock of green 
paroquets fluttered out above their heads, other “strange 
bright birds ” of that unfamiliar land flew by, and a strange 
lizard, with a brilliant throat, flashed across their path ; the 
dark masonry of the old temple was lost sight of, though the 
feeling of this decayed witness of a hoary creed, its gloom 
and grandeur, and the majesty with which it traced itself 
upon the cloudless sky, remained with them. 

Their path now rose a little, and soon they found themselves 
by a tumbling, plashing cascade, which swept with many a 
light wreath of spray down the rocks into a dark pool over- 
hung with graceful bamboos, beyond which the river came 
in sight again ; and they saw some buildings on the farther 
bank, sentinelled by palms, those trees so typical of the lan- 
guid, graceful East. Surely, all their lives long they would 
remember those drooping palms beneath the broad, bright 
Indian sky. 

“ I don’t know how to tell you,” Philip began at last, when 
they stopped, Ada sitting on a rock past which the water 
rushed with a white flash and a sound like the mill-water 
many times doubled, and he leaning against the rocky wall a 
little lower down. “ It is bad news from home.” 

She looked up ; the light died out of her face at what she 
saw in his. 


228 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Oh ! ” she replied gaspingly, remembering the bad news 
he had received on that night of their first meeting at the 
ball, “ but there is only Jessie left.” 

“Only Jessie,” he echoed, looking gloomily down at the 
swirling waters. 

“ I am so sorry,” she said, in a voice so charged with 
sympathy and tenderness that it cut him to the heart ; “ she 
is not — ill? ” 

“No. Oh, no! — Ada, I have done wrong, very wrong, I 
never told you — or anyone — all about Jessie. It never oc- 
curred to me that it mattered. Still, I think I should have 
told you , if we had been a little longer together, because — 
you were — you seemed interested in my life, and-^it is so 
pleasant to have sympathy from you. Not that I ever dreamed 
that it could in any way affect you .” 

Surely what affects my friend affects me,” she said, 
accentuating the word friend. 

“ That is why I told you nothing ; we were sworn friends,” 
he replied. And then, in a few words, he narrated the story 
of the death-bed betrothal and of the purposed marriage 
deferred by the Mutiny. His relations with Matthew Meade 
and all the rest of his story, even his guardianship of Jessie, 
she knew already, but something had always kept him from 
speaking of his engagement ; perhaps the subject was too 
distasteful. And when he did speak of Jessie, his manner 
was always that of an affectionate elder brother. Ada was 
under the impression that she was still a child. So probably 
was Philip ; for him, she was always the little playmate of his 
boyhood, the undeveloped slip of a girl who had bid him fare- 
well nearly two years ago. 


CHAPTER IV. 


BY THE WATERFALL. 

Ada watched the water flash down to the pool, and heard 
the story of the death-bed betrothal to the accompaniment of 
its manifold murmuring, without interruption or comment till 
the end, then she turned her face from the water to Philip 
with a little sigh. 

“ Yes, you ought to have told me,” she said, in low and 
gentle tones unalloyed by reproach. 

He could not speak or trust himself to look at her for a 
moment ; yet, in spite of the keen unspoken reproach those 
gentle words contained, his heart throbbed with triumphant 

joy- 

“If I had ever dreamed — ” he began, “but I never 
ventured,” he added after a long pause, “ I thought you so 
far above my reach. We were on such friendly terms from 
the first. I knew that your people would never hear of any- 
thing of the sort. You seemed so safe. I did not think that 
I — a rough-hewn sort of fellow — could ever touch you like 
that — until ” 

“ Until yesterday ? ” she asked, in the same low, gentle voice. 

“ How could I help it ? ” he cried, “ how could I ? I heard 
the mare’s hoofs strike the wall, I heard the crash — ah ! And 
when I saw you lying there you were so white, so still ! I shall 
never forget it. I was mad, dearest, I can only ask to be for- 
given.” He put his hand before his face as if to exclude 
something from his sight. Ada had turned again toward the 
rushing waters, her breast was shaken by a little sob and her 
eyes were full of tears. He brushed away the intruding 
vision and looked at her quivering face outlined against the 
rocky fall with mingled feelings. 

“But you wished,” she said, turning her face once more 
toward him so that he saw the tears shining in her eyes, “ to 
tell me of your trouble. Never mind yesterday. May I see 
the letter ? ” 

They read it together, he explaining here and there what 
seemed necessary. It was written immediately after Jessie’s 


230 


JJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


last visit to Marwell Rectory, when Miss Ingleby had received 
her with such marked coldness ; it related the scandal as it 
was buzzed about the place, also Mr. Ingleby ’s view of the 
actual facts, his conviction of Jessie’s perfect integrity and 
child-like ignorance of conventionalities. It spoke of Mrs. 
Plummer’s practical neglect of Jessie in suffering her to go 
about unattended, and of the total impossibility of making 
either the Plummers or Mr. Cheeseman comprehend the kind 
of guardianship a girl like Jessie required, and of the impos- 
sibility of keeping a young woman of her breeding and tastes 
chained to the homely occupations and companionship of one 
so uncultivated as Mrs. Plummer. Jessie’s previous foiled at- 
tempts at confidence to himself were recapitulated, her mental 
and moral loneliness, her great beauty and charm, her talents, 
her dangerous visit to Marwell Court and false position there ; 
all were dwelt upon affectionately, even lovingly. His sister’s 
line of conduct toward Jessie was regretted, and the conversa- 
tion he had had with her on her way from the Rectory was 
related. But, bravely as Jessie had accepted the consequences 
of her error, Mr. Ingleby said, in conclusion, he did not think 
she could possibly remain in the neighborhood after such a 
scandal, and great as was his confidence in her integrity and 
high principle, one never knew what unadvised steps a girl 
might take in despair. There was no doubt, he added in a 
post-script, that this fascinating man of the world had to a 
certain extent attracted and influenced Jessie ; he trusted it 
was no more than the influence of a strong nature over a weak 
one, and would pass away. But in the circumstances he 
thought it unwise to have her out to India just yet. 

“ There is but one course,” Ada said, after carefully read- 
ing the letter, “ and I know that you have already decided 
upon it.” 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ yes, that seemed the only right 
course, but I wanted your opinion first.” 

“ You know,” she continued, as if pleading against some 
objection upon his part, “ this is no ordinary engagement ; it is 
not merely a question of keeping faith with a —fiancee — but 
keeping faith with the dead, and with all your past life. 
Perhaps this engagement with one so young was not well 
done — but, Philip — it is done.” 

* It would be a scoundrelly desertion, though she did offer 
to release me from it,” he replied. 

“ Release you ? ” 

“Yes, she offered that,” he said, and told her as much as 
he could remember of the letter and his reply. She turned 


22V THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


231 


away and looked at the foaming water for some time, and 
then she turned and looked straight in his face with an 
earnest, candid gaze that went through him. “Philip,” she 
said, “ do you think that she loves you ? ” 

“ I never thought about it,” he replied, with the utmost 
simplicity ; “I took it for granted.” 

“ How like a man ! ” she commented, with a strange little 
half-smile playing over her face, as she turned again to con- 
sider the rushing waters. 

“If she does not, I cannot force her to marry me,” he said, 
rather wistfully. 

“ But if she does not, she may be won,” she urged, turning 
again with the same earnest gaze. “ You may think it 
strange,” she added, with a vivid flush, (“but girls expect to 
be courted. It is a homage that ought not to be withheld.” 

“ And yet — ” he paused, remembering that he had said no 
word of love to Ada, though every time he looked at her his 
eyes told the tale. 

“ Do you remember Andromache’s parting from Hector ? ” 
she continued. ‘ Father, thou art to me and mother dear, 
and brother too, kind husband of my heart.’ That is the re- 
lationship between you and Jessie, my friend.” 

“ She has no one else,” he asserted, awed by the pathetic 
tenderness which Ada’s beautiful voice gave to these words. 

“ And is six thousand miles away, in grave peril, alone and 
unprotected,” she continued, looking down upon him through 
eyes brilliant with tears. She had grown rather pale during 
the interview ; she was now bending slightly toward him, her 
face partially shaded by one hand, her attitude, as she sat in- 
clining toward the cascade with one knee on which her arm 
rested, higher than the other, singularly sweet and graceful, 
and expressive beyond all words. 

“ There is no one like you ! ” he cried. “ No one. Who 
could help loving you ? ” 

“There is no one,” she continued, suffering two bright 
tears to fall unheeded, “like Philip Bandal in honor and 
truth. Philip, which would you rather have, a disloyal lover 
or a staunch friend ? ” 

“But I must leave you and never see you again,” he mur- 
mured, huskily, “ never see you, never ! ” 

“ You will get over this, you will conquer yourself,” she 
replied, with the same sweet gentleness and the same earnest 
gaze. “Some day you will show me your Jessie, and all the 
trouble will be forgotten. Life has great things in it, and 
pleasing one’s self, even in the way of marriage, where choice 


232 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


is usually duty, does not bring blessing. You have talent 
and energy, a great future is before you, though you must 
now miss one of the best opportunities possible to one so 
young, as my father says. It is hard, Philip, very hard, but 
after all, true prosperity and promotion only come through 
duty. I shall hear of you, Philip, and be glad and proud. 


‘ Not once nor twice in our rough island story 
The path of duty was the way to glory,’” 

she added. 

He moved toward her, his eyes kindled with holy fire and 
a half articulate cry on his lips, but something in the very 
tenderness of her sorrowful gaze made him pause, overawed, 
and draw back again. 

“And you, Ada? What will you do?” he asked, in half 
smothered tones. 

A sudden burst of tears was the unexpected and disquiet- 
ing reply. He stood with his back to the rock, and his arms 
folded across his chest, and looked at her with a white face 
and gleaming eyes. 

“ Anything but this,” he groaned. “ I cannot bear this.” 

She checked herself, quietly dried her eyes, and sum- 
moned a sweet, tender smile to her face. 

“I hope I shall do well,” she replied, resuming her former 
attitude ; “I have a thousand plans and projects, all for the 
good and welfare of mankind,” she added, with a little dainty 
sarcasm. 

“I could not help it, I did not mean it. I tried so hard,” 
he said, heavily. “ I tried after the ball to forget you, and 
then, that ruby ! it seemed enchanted. Chance took me to 
Gossamjee’s house, and I could not avoid you. But I ought 
not to have seen you again at Lucknow. And then, when 
your rose struck my face that day I lost my head, but I never 
dreamed of hurting you.” 

“ Ho not reproach yourself,” she replied. “ It would not be 
otherwise, and even if you had not told me, I am afraid — Oh ! 
it began at the ball ! I never thought of anyone else in that 
way. It was my own fault. There was never a word from 
you till yesterday.” 

“ Ah, yesterday ! ” 

“I did not know till yesterday,” she said, bringing the 
shadow of her hand more completely over her face and 
speaking in those low golden, clear tones of deep feeling, 
“ but it must have been in my heart always. We must go. 
See how the shadows slant. They will be looking for us.” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 233 

“ One minute more. I may never see you again,” he cried, 
trying to prevent her from leaving her rocky seat, “ and I 
must never even think of you again.” 

“ Not yet,” she replied, taking the hand extended to help 
her down from her niche by the water, “not till things are 
right at home. And then I think we shall always be glad to 
have known each other, Philip,” she added, with an infinitely 
tender and sorrowful smile. 

“ If I might die for you ! ” he cried. 

“ Live instead ; live well, live nobly,” she rejoined. “ Oh, 
Philip, dying is easy enough, living is the hard part.” 

He turned away. 

“Philip ! ” she exclaimed, “ Philip ! ” 

He turned, extended his arms and would have embraced 
her, but that she drew back gently and repelled him. 

“Never again,” she said, and he fell back a pace, but 
pleading that it was their last moment together. 

“We must go now,” she added, hurriedly. “You know,” 
she added, with the old tenderness, “most people would 
blame me ” 

“Blame you ! ” he echoed, indignantly. 

“ Not such as you,” she replied, with a smile of perfect 
trust, “ you are too chivalrous. But the world, conventional 
people, if they knew what I have let you know. So, Philip, 
never let me blame myself, never let me regret, never let me 
be anything but proud of you.” 

She moved from the waterfall as she spoke, the hoarse 
murmur of the waters became fainter and fainter, the shadows 
of the trees deepened above their heads, the river faded once 
more into blue glimpses beneath leafy canopies. Philip made 
some fervid, half-articulate rejoinder as he walked by her side 
full of sudden perfect peace, and lifted up in heart as he had 
never been before. 

They separated before appearing at the river side, where 
the yacht was about to set sail ; the young people supposed 
Ada to have remained with her mother, who imagined her to 
have been with the party exploring the temple. The eligible 
civilian reproved her for her desertion, and she told him how 
stiff and aching her yesterday’s tumble had made her, and 
was more gracious to him than he remembered to have seen 
her. Philip devoted himself to Mrs. Maynard, whom he 
helped on board ; then he had a brief chat with the colonel, 
telling him that family affairs called him suddenly home, and 
that he was obliged to give up his staff appointment and ask 
for leave, at which Colonel Maynard was greatly concerned. 


234 


IN THE HEART OF THE VTORM. 


He plainly told Philip that such an opportunity as he had now 
fell to the lot of few, and might never occur again, and im- 
plored him to consider before he threw it away. Afterward, 
he told his wife that he verily believed “ that little flirt Ada ” 
had refused him, and that, on the whole, perhaps it was as 
well that she should not have taken a nameless adventurer 
like Eandal, even though old maidhood must now be her 
doom. 

Philip had sent his horse back and made one of the party 
on board the yacht. The wind was not fair for them, they 
had to tack and delay their course, while the sun burned 
away in the west and went down in great pomp of crimson 
and gold, its glory reflected and redoubled in the river. 

Though Ada and Philip did not speak during the voyage, 
it was a secret and sweet memory for their future lives. Each 
could see the other, each was blessedly conscious of the other’s 
presence, each would have liked to sail on forever over the 
broad river, which was steeped in the splendid ardors of that 
glowing sunset. On and on forever over those richly hued 
waters, in the peace of the cooling evening, in the exquisite 
hush which follows the dying sun, they would have liked to 
glide, enjoying the picturesque features of that foreign shore, 
its waving palms and mango groves, its dark groves of unfa 
miliar trees, its oriental houses, the domes and minarets of 
the little towns, the dusky, brightly clad people passing in 
native boats and moving by the river side — on and on, their 
keel cleaving now a wave of molten gold, now a sea of liquid 
rose, now of amethyst, violet, amber, primrose, now floods of 
dissolved rubies. 

But the glowing radiance burned too swiftly away, the last 
stain left the waters, the sudden night fell long before they 
reached their landing place. They saw great stars orb them- 
selves in the dark sky and tremble upon the river’s breast, 
aud when they landed, a broad moon was just peeping above 
the horizon, its mellow light was gilding the dark and glossy 
leaves of the orange-trees, and lending a new witchery to the 
slender palms and delicate acacias in the garden. 

Philip and Ada lingered behind, unnoticed in the darkness, 
and walked together in the shadow of those beautiful trees, 
touched now and again by the mystical glory of the rising 
moon. Here they clasped hands for the last time, and bid 
each other farewell with over-full hearts. Then Ada mingled 
with the others on the verandah, people wished each other 
good-night there, she shivering in the chill air, though Philip 
had wrapped her in a warm shawL 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


235 


She heard his quick firm steps as he passed beneath the 
orange-trees and out of the compound into the road, on 
which he had been walking when her rose struck his face. 
Then they died away, and she owned, on being questioned, 
that she was very tired. 

A week or two later Philip stood on the deck of a steamer 
and watched the Indian shorg, with the gilded domes and 
light minarets of its brooding city lessen and fade in the dis- 
tance. Not quite two years before he had landed in the 
unknown, marvel-teeming Asian country, a stranger and an 
exile, with a deep yearning for pale English skies and pale 
misty English shores ; he had found it drenched with blood 
and clouded with terror ; out of the dark heart of the horror 
and strife of those days he had plucked the beautiful flower 
he might never wear, he had fought and suffered, and won 
himself a name that he must now bury in obscurity ; he was 
bidding good-by to everything he cared for. Farewell now 
to the blazing suns, the broad rich plains, the mighty moun- 
tain ranges, the beautiful cities rich with unfamiliar archi- 
tecture and dense dark groves, the palm-circled temples, the 
dark picturesque people of many creeds, races, and tongues, 
the castle-crested hills, the thick forests haunted by fierce 
beautiful beasts and fierce beautiful reptiles, the brief but 
glowing dawns and sunsets, and the sudden star-lit nights. 
Farewell to the dignified politeness of the grave, brightly 
clad, jewelled nobles, the sound of the rich southern lan- 
guages, the mystery surrounding beings so alien to European 
habits and thoughts. All was fascination to him in that land 
of marvel. Even the stately tramp of elephants, those huge 
sagacious creatures with more than human intelligence, even 
the jolting swaying pace of a camel, had a sort of charm when 
one was not riding it. But how much greater was the charm 
of rose gardens, orange and lime groves, and above all of that 
rocky waterfall, shadowed by its slender bamboos and droop- 
ing palms ! The sound of those falling waters would always 
haunt him, blended with the sweeter sound of Ada’s voice. 
Farewell now to those memories ; he must never dwell upon 
them again. Yet that hour by the waterfall nerved him to 
his duty, and his love then entered upon a higher phase. It 
had till then been so hard to give up, now it seemed simply 
right and inevitable ; loyalty was no more divided ; in being 
loyal to earlier claims he would best keep faith with Ada. 

The shores faded into the general blueness, and he turned 
away from the charmed scenes of romance, love, and glory, 
forgetful of the horror and suffering through which these 


236 


m THE nEABT OF THE STORM. 


had been won, and set his face toward chill gray England 
and the chill prose of duty. 

Deeply as he pitied Jessie, and strongly as he felt his 
responsibility toward her, he was extremely angry with her, 
angry with the cold disapproving anger that only a man 
can feel, and only toward a woman who belongs to him, and 
who has, however slightly, 'compromised herself. He did 
not think Jessie capable of a wrong thought, but he did 
think that through folly or ignorance, or both, she had got 
into a very serious scrape ; and such folly, or such ignorance, 
in women is unpardonable in male eyes. Their womenkind, 
however foolish and ignorant in other respects, are expected 
not only to be faultless in deed and thought, but also in cir- 
cumspection, tact, and knowledge. Every man is Csesar to 
his wife and sister. Caesar’s wife must be not only above 
suspicion, but beyond misconception. 

Such is the arrogance of this frail and erring atom, man, to 
the woman he deigns to love and respect. A more thor- 
oughly and unconsciously foolish biped does not exist upon 
earth, doomed as it is to bear the tread of so many foolish 
things. My womenkind, says this little autocrat, though 
silly, ignorant, and weak, dwell upon heights of unapproach- 
able purity, cased in armor of invulnerable virtue ; women in 
general, on the contrary, are — well, we all know what women 
are ! He has no mercy on the errors of his own sister, how- 
ever tempted, but is ever tender to the failings of other men. 

Philip was not particularly angry with Claude Medway. 
How could he blame him for amusing himself after the 
manner of his kind ? He would of course think that girls 
must take care of themselves, and that if girls are ignorant 
of what is due to themselves, so much the worse for them. 
Woe to the weak ! Are gilded youth responsible for the 
misery of those who fall in their way? Is not the world 
the world ? Yes, my good Philip, and the devil is the devil, 
aud a strong one to boot ; but that is no reason why we should 
knock under to him. 

Once or twice it crossed Philip’s mind that irretrievable 
disaster might have befallen' Jessie, but he dismissed it as 
insulting to her. But Ada had fully faced this ghastly pos- 
sibility. She could also conceive redemption and healing for 
a woman, as for a man ; if, as she heard, a good woman could 
lead a husband from a dark past to a holy future, surely a 
good man might lead a wife. But Ada was only a woman, 
she had not had the advantage of hearing men of the world 
instruct each other upon the different code of ethics proper 


IlSr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


237 


to each sex, as Philip had ; and having early discovered that 
conventional morality is for the most part a hybrid between 
real morality and the expediency invented by ages of male 
selfishness, resolved to accept none not based upon justice 
and truth. Therefore she expected Philip to save to the 
uttermost the one human being dependent upon him. 

Philip’s heart beat strongly when, after having taken the 
quick overland route, he saw the gray Dover cliffs rising from 
the pale sea. In less than twenty-four hours he would look 
again upon Jessie’s sweet, pathetic child face. He would be 
very gentle with her, would appear to know nothing of those 
ill-judged rambles; would place her under some suitable lady 
guardian, far from the scenes of those idle tales, and gently 
and gradually win her heart. Never till then had he felt how 
closely Jessie’s life was entwined with his, or how strong and 
ineradicable are the affections that begin with life itself. He 
little suspected the calamity that had long since fallen upon 
him. 


CHAPTER V. 

philip’s welcome home. 

Philip lost no time after landing in setting his face home- 
ward, as he called it. He stepped out upon the platform at 
Cleeve railway station in the afternoon of a cold, clear Janu- 
ary day, and was surprised not to see a face he recognized in 
the familiar place. The flyman, on being told to drive to 
Redwoods, asked where it was. 

“Sir Arthur Medway’s place, Marwell Court? Yes, knows 
that. ’Tis a good nine mile ride and the roads heavy,” he 
said. 

“ Marwell village, farm on the right. Drive as fast as you 
can.” 

The streets were silent with the dull and ghostly silence of 
snow, silent but not white, snowy but not picturesque ; town, 
snow is a sorry spectacle, chill, depressing, suggestive of all 
the soils and stains incident to poor humanity. Yet there 
was no sludge, no muddy deliquescence penetrating to the 
very marrow with its chill ; the sun was shining, the white 
topped roofs were outlined upon a clear pale sky, the icicled 
eaves sparkled as the long spikes melted and froze and melted 
and froze again ; the snow was trampled into yellow-brown 
powder in the roads, on which the horse’s feet struck now and 
then with a muffled thud. 

The grammar school alone looked more venerable and 
picturesque than usual, its gray walls tufted with feathery 
drifts of unstained snow, its gabled roof, mullions, and drip 
stones traced in white snow-lines, its leafless lime-trees show- 
ing a tracery of mingled pink and white branches against the 
freezing sky. Philip thought of his early battles in the play- 
ground, and of that “big brute Brown,” now a peaceful and 
substantial young tradesman, a good deal hen-pecked by a 
fierce little scrap of a wife. Matthew Meade had pinched to 
send him there at first. 

It was scarcely two years since the death of Matthew and 
Martha ; he almost expected to see the former leaning over 
the half-door of the mill when he passed. The wheel was 


IJSr THE HEART OF THE STORM . 


239 


still, adorned with jewelry and lace-work of icicles spark- 
ling against its black steps ; ice sheets spread from the banks 
half over the water, swans floated in the centre, pigeons 
wheeled in the sunshine, but a strange face looked from the 
open half-door, leaning there as Matthew had leant. There 
was no gold-haired child clinging to his hand. The great 
willow, under whose leafy boughs he had lain and longed to 
be a man, dropped its bare yellow branches over the snow- 
covered grass. 

The town passed, the country spread pure and stainless 
beneath the pale blue sky, into which the rose of sunset w r as 
softly stealing. This white, soft, soundless robe is a bridal 
vesture or a shroud, according to the gazer s mood ; to Philip 
driving too slowly over the noiseless road, it was a wedding 
garment. With every hushed fall of the horse’s feet he drew 
nearer to Jessie, to the one being who shared the memories 
of youth and the affections of home with him. How glad 
she would be ! Perhaps, after all, he ought to have written to 
announce his arrival, but there is something so attractive in 
the thought of coming unexpectedly upon long absent friends, 
and surprising the warmth of their hearts. A dream of 
Jessie’s joyous surprise and warm welcome had floated before 
him for weeks — another and brighter dream, belonging to the 
warm country of mystery and marvel he had left behind, was 
resolutely banished to a deep recess of memory. Some day 
Jessie must hear of it, but not yet. Perhaps they would each 
have something to forgive, but Jessie’s shrift would be short 
and easy, he was sure. 

They drove but slowly, for the snow was deep and drifted 
in places ; the horse’s feet balled from time to time ; after all 
he might almost as well have walked and so warmed his blood 
in the pure keen air. What a charm the dazzling white 
country wfltli its blue shadows, its peeping roofs and trees, 
had for one fresh from India ! how' truly English it was ! He 
had almost forgotten the deep ineradicable dearness of Eng- 
land to a true Englishman in the fascination of India, and al- 
most forgotten in another more powerful fascination the 
strength of family ties. But now he remembered that Jessie 
was all he had in the world — father and mother, home and 
country, duty and domestic affection, all met and were sym- 
bolized in Jessie. Hitherto he had thought of her as depend- 
ing on and needing him, but now in the strong and sudden 
inrush of long dormant feelings, caused by the sight of home 
and country, he realized his own dependence on and need of 
Jessie. She was to know nothing of his reasons for throwing 


240 IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 

up his appointment and coming home so suddenly, she would 
doubtless be pleased that he should come for her rather than 
have her sent out to him ; it would appear in the light of a 
chivalrous deference that could not fail to charm a girL 

The snowy fields were stained in pure hues of rose and 
crimson, orange and amber, as the sun dropped down in the 
west ; then they paled to violet and dead white ; a ghostly 
gleam was reflected upward on the cold dusk air. There is 
nothing so desolate as the white gleam of snow after sunset, 
before the stars sparkle out and the darkness broods over the 
corpse-like pallor. Body and mind alike yield to the gray 
and lonely chill of the moment. Philip’s heart sank with an 
indescribable foreboding, and he was glad to see the red 
gleam of cottage windows as they reached the village and 
saw the boys sliding and snow-balling on the green. He 
jumped down and walked -swiftly on, telling the flyman to 
follow to the farm, the chimneys of which were now visible in 
the distance. The woman of the village shop and post-office 
looked after the tail-grown, foreign-looking man and wondered 
who he was. 

“ Somebody for the Court, I reckon,” she said, turning aw r ay 
to sell bullseyes to a ruddy lad, as she had often served them 
to Philip, who had passed many a holiday week at Bed- 
woods. 

Here was the great elm to the top of which he had once 
dared Boger to climb, and from a limb of which Boger had 
fallen with an appalling thud, but quite unharmed, to the 
ground. He hastened on, thinking that this rough, bluff 
Boger was after all a strange housemate for so dainty a crea- 
ture as Jessie. His pace quickened to a run, hurrah ! There 
was the red light of the sitting-room fire, suddenly leaping 
up and streaming over the shining snow-laden evergreens 
without, like a beacon light to guide him home ; Jessie’s 
hand perhaps had stirred the fire to that leaping blaze. 

His hand was on the wicket and he was about to open it, 
when the red glow vanished, strangely daunting him, a hand 
closed the shutters, he felt himself shut out in the chill gray 
snow-light, and instead of entering by the front door went 
round through the farm-yard, where the cows were pulling 
hay from racks, and so in by the kitchen. 

“ Hullo ! ” sang out Abraham, who was stumping heavily in 
with a pitchfork in his hand, on feeling Philip’s strong grasp 
on his shoulder, “ who be you ? What be ye up to ? ” 

They were just in the red glow of the outer kitchen door- 
way. Sarah was busy at the hearth, breaking and piling up 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


241 


faggots of furze to boil a swinging kettle, the dark smoke- 
browned walls were lit up by the dancing blaze. “ Lord a 
mercy ! ” Abraham cried, recognizing Philip on turning, 
‘‘here’s Master Philip ! Whatever be us to do, Sarow?” 

“ Master Philip ! ” cried Sarah, dropping the billhook with 
which she was chopping her faggots and coming forward. 
“ Why ever couldn’t you bide out in India ? Whatever be ye 
come here for ? ” 

“ For Jessie, to be sure,” he replied, giving her a hearty kiss. 
“ How are they all? You look as sound as a bell, Sarah.” 

“ There, sit down by the fire, do,” she replied, hysterically, 
at the same time pushing him into a wooden chair. “I ’lows 
you be pretty nigh shrammed with the coold. Shet the door, 
ye girt zote, do,” she added, falling foul of the unlucky Abra- 
ham, who had remained in the doorway as if transfixed, with 
the fork held trident-wise in one hand and his mouth and eyes 
wide open. “ And Missus ’ll be that mad,” she added. 

Just then Roger came in by another door, and PliilqD rose 
to shake hands with him, scarcely noticing that Roger’s once 
ruddy face was pale, and that he walked with a stick. 

“ Glad to see you,” Roger said, from habit and courtesy, 
“ but whatever’s the good of shutting the door when the steed’s 
stolen ! ” he added. 

Philip scarcely heeded this enigmatical speech, but followed 
Roger to the sitting-room, where Cousin Jane was seated by 
the fire opposite her husband. 

They looked tranquil enough ; all surely was well, and yet 
an uneasy foreboding checked the words upon his lips when, 
his eyes having swiftly and vainly sought the gleam of Jessie’s 
golden hair in the ruddy light, he would fain have asked for 
her. 

“ Merciful Powers ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Plummer, lifting her 
hands in dismay, “ if it isn’t Philip ! ” 

“ Philip ! ” echoed Mr. Plummer, rising, “ Lord help the 
boy, whatever brought you here ? ” 

Philip stopped, looking at them silently, with a nightmare 
dryness in his throat. Mrs. Plummer’s round face had a 
pinched look, the corners of her mouth had a more settled 
downward tendency than formerly, her gown was black. . Nat 
Plummer had a bewildered air, the set of Roger’s once jovial 
face was tragic, he pushed his tangled curls off his strong 
white forehead, and his blue eyes gazed at Philip’s boding face 
with a wistful pity. Old Sebastopol, the maimed cat, rose and 
limped up to the new-comer on her three legs, purring and 
rubbing affectionately against him, the only creature who had 
16 


242 


IJT THE HEART OE THE STORM. 


a welcome for him. Philip stood very squarely in the midst 
of them, his bronzed face growing bloodless, his heart beating 
with low hurried throbs. 

“Where,” he said at last, in a strained, unnatural voice, 
“ where is Jessie ? ” 

“Jessie ! ” the three echoed in differing tones of dismay. 
“Why, you don’t seem quite right, somehow, Philip,” cried 
Mr. Plummer. 

“ Trouble hev turned his brain ” added Mrs. Plummer, dis- 
mally. 

“ Can this be a bad dream ? ” asked Philip, his eyes dilat- 
ing. “ Where is my sister ? ” he repeated. 

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Roger. “Why, mother,” he 
added, “Philip don’t know. There wasn’t time for him to 
get the letter, come to think of it.” 

“Sure enough, more there was,” echoed Mrs. Plummer. 
“ You don’t mean to say, Philip, you’ve a come all the way 
home not knowing ? Dear heart, what trouble, what 
trouble ! ” 

The walls seemed to be rushing round him, his lips were so 
dry and stiff; he caught at a chair to steady himself, and 
stammered : “ Is she — is she — dead ? ” the last word in a 
raised voice. 

“ Hullo ! ” cried Roger, stepping forward and catching him 
while he pushed a chair under him. “ Drink, mother, give 
him drink.” 

Mrs. Plummer bustled quickly to the cupboard by the fire- 
place, whence she brought a spirit decanter and a tumbler, 
and pouring out a good draught of raw brandy, gave it to 
Philip. 

Then the dark- red mist cleared from his eyes, he looked at 
Mrs. Plummer’s black dress, thence to her tearful face, and 
thence to the troubled faces of Nat and Roger. 

“She was so young,” he said, “they were so devoted to 
her.” 

“ She had grown up fine and slim, poor maid,” added Nat 
Plummer ; “you’d scarcely have known her again, Philip.” 

“ How was it ? ” he asked, choking something down and 
speaking steadily ; “ how did it happen ? She was always so 
healthy, never ailed that I heard of. Tell me all.” 

He looked straight before him ; they looked at each other 
mutely. 

“All’s a good deal when all’s said,” Mrs. Plummer replied 
at last, oracularly ; “ you’ve come off a journey and had a 
shock, hadn’t you better wait till you’ve taken something?” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM 243 

“No, no,” lie replied, quickly, “nothing can matter if she 
is dead.” 

“ There’s worse than death, Philip ” 

“ Mother ! ” cried Roger, starting up. 

“ If you must have the worst, Philip,” said Mrs. Plummer, 
“ the best we can hope is she’s dead.” 

“ She is dead,” muttered Roger through his clenched teeth. 

“ There is a doubt ? There was an accident ? ” asked Philip, 
trembling with he knew not what sickening horror and re- 
membering his vision of Jessie months back. 

“She’s gone, poor child, and we hope she may be dead,” 
continued Mrs. Plummer, “ for there’s disgrace behind.” 

“No, no,” cried Roger, “it is talk, Philip, vile talk, and it 
drove her beside herself. If any man uses that word of her,” 
he added, excitedly, “I knock him down. As sure as fate I 
knock him down.” 

“So do I,” echoed Philip. 

“Lord save us!” exclaimed Mrs. Plummer. “For pity’s 
sake take Roger away, Plummer.” 

“ Go on out, Roger, and leave it to mother and me,” said his 
father, laying his hand on the young giant’s shoulder and 
pushing him to the door, which he closed and locked upon 
him. 

“Tell me all,” Philip said when he was gone. 

“ To be sure ’tis a hard hearing for ye, Philip, and a hard 
telling for me,” Mrs. Plummer replied, “and sorry I am for 
her, heaven knows. I acted for the best, I’m sure, and I 
never had any fault to find with her, and never knew but all 
was right the very day she went off ” 

“Went off — ” echoed Philip, staring blindly before him. 

“We thought she was gone to Miss Blushford’s,” added 
Nat. “We heard nothing of him.” 

“ And all the country talking,” continued Mrs. Plummer, 
“ and even Abram and Sarah knew it ; there wasn’t a creature 
in the place that didn’t know. I wouldn’t speak against her, 
and she, poor child, gone, but I must say there was deception 
in her, such as never was.” 

“ Yes, she kept it close, poor lass, poor lass ! ” added Mr. 
Plummer, with agitation; “’tis always like that with girls 
when led away.” 

Philip’s head sank into his hands ; he thought of Matthew’s 
and Martha’s pride in the child, and the care he had taken to 
fence her from the very knowledge of evil, the thought of his 
own reverence for her. Jessie had been the very symbol of 
purity to him, and he had to sit still and listen while she was 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


244 

pitied and partially excused, to see her honor trailed in the 
dust in the sight of all the world, to hear her name in the 
mouth of drunkards and at the mercy of all evil thoughts and 
venomous imaginations. Little Jessie, his own sister ! Mat- 
thew’s innocent child ! 

“Go on, tell me all,” he said, heavily. 

And so gradually the whole pitiful story came out, the 
stolen meetings in the wood, the talk, the secret distress that 
was wearing the unhappy girl’s life out, the supposed visit to 
the old school mistress and the disappearance discovered so 
late. Then all the fruitless efforts to discover Jessie, the in- 
terview with Sir Arthur, the written disclaimer of Claude 
Medway, which was shown him, as well as Jessie’s own fare- 
well to her cousin, lastly the discovery of the handkerchief by 
the riverside and Roger’s surmises based upon it. 

He did not interrupt the narrative, discursive and often 
irrelevant as it was ; he sat still in a kind of stony patience, 
while the story poured upon his tingling ears like molten 
metal. And when the tale was done he sat on silent in the 
same posture. 

“ I am afraid,” he said, “ I am afraid she is still alive. And 
yet — if she had died — in her despair ” 

“ Well, there, we can’t alter it, whatever ’tis,” said Mr. Plum- 
mer. “We did all we could to find her. But that box stag- 
gers me. Whatever went with that box ? ” 

“ And her paints and things she was so set on,” added his 
wife. “ Roger he will have it the box was stolen.” 

“ But why should she pack it ? ” asked Philip. 

“ Roger thinks ’twas for a blind. Roger would have found 
her dead or alive, if anybody could a done it ; he’d a pulled the 
moon out of the sky before he’d give in. But there he fell off 
a wagon loaded with straw and broke his thigh soon after, 
and I often think it was a mercy in disguise, heavy as it come 
upon me, and my daughter Eliza confined and her husband 
with no more sense than a addled egg. There we had him on 
his back for a couple of months as helpless as a babe, else 
he’d a been all over the country looking for her and stirring 
up talk upon talk.” 

Philip listened as one who hears nothing, mechanically 
stroking his old Crimean comrade, who sat purring on his 
knee the while, until he touched a tender place in her scarred 
body and made her swear. 

“ Poor Sebastopol,” he said, stroking her with more cir- 
cumspection, “ poor old puss! ” Then he burst into tears. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE RIVERSIDE ARK. 

The next afternoon, about the falling of dusk, saw Philip 
walking through snowy lanes and across field-paths toward 
the river’s bank. He had pulled his coat-collar up about his 
face and crushed his hat over his eyes, and with a burning 
fear of being recognized by passengers as he strode swiftly 
along in the pale snow-gleam. 

Ashamed of Jessie. That was indeed a strange experience, 
and yet it was the strongest in all the wild medley of agonized 
feelings that surged within him. He pitied her much, but he 
condemned her more. Nothing, he thought, with the stern 
Pharisaism of male kindred, could palliate, much less excuse 
conduct such as hers ; those secret meetings augured deception 
as well as a frailty that made him shudder ; piteous as the 
idea of a self-sought death of despair was, it was still the one 
sign of grace to be hoped for. But he did not think that she 
had taken her life ; the country talk, the cold looks and averted 
heads of her acquaintances would not provide a motive strong 
enough for so desperate a measure, and no more pressing 
motive could be argued. He did not know what Jessie had 
known too well that, guilty or not guilty, Mrs. Plummer 
would never receive a disgraced girl beneath her roof. “ She 
might die on the road first,” was her expression. 

In the long watches of the night, as he tossed uneasily upon 
Mrs. Plummer’s lavender-scented pillows he had thought 
much of Jessie’s disharmony with her surroundings. Red- 
woods, the scene of pleasant holidays in childhood, had been 
taken without criticism, but now that he came fresh to it after 
so long an interval and habitual experience of more polished 
modes of life, it struck him that “ Wood ways” could scarcely 
have been congenial to Jessie, the more so as she saw home- 
spun roughness in contrast with the refined elegance, almost 
splendor, of Marwell Court. A vague remorse mingled with 
these thoughts ; he asked himself again and again what he 
could have done better for her, and the answer always was, 
nothing. The fault seemed to lie in circumstance ; she had 


246 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


been trained out of harmony with her position in life, she had 
no social status, she had risen from one class but not reached 
another. If he had taken her to India, her isolation would 
have been frightful ; he would have had to leave her while he 
marched to the first Relief of Lucknow, and went through the 
Rohilcunde campaign. And if he had married her in England 
and left her behind, it would have been far worse. Then 
Jessie’s sweet, sorrowful face would rise before him with gen- 
tle reproach. No evil could be attributed to that sweet and 
guileless child. But he remembered that nearly every woman 
has once been innocent. He had passed the morning, not 
without some feeling of sacrilege, in the small white-draped 
room that had been hers, looking over her papers and things 
in search of some clue to her disappearance. His own letters 
were all there, neatly packeted and endorsed ; how cold and 
hard they seemed to be ! One had arrived after her disap- 
pearance and had never been opened ; there was something 
inexpressibly ghastly in opening and reading it. Her favorite 
books were there, a scanty stock ; her Thomas a Kempis, the 
Tennyson he had given her on her fifteenth birthday, well- 
worn and much underlined — 

Love took up the harp of life , and smote on all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, which, trembling, passed in music out of sight. 

This was dated, September, 1858, and doubly scored. 

There were long and most affectionate letters from Miss Lons- 
dale ; she appeared to have kept every scrap of her writing ; 
one or two pencilled notes from Ethel Medway — not a line of 
writing in the hand he expected and feared to see. There 
was a commonplace book, dainty and neat, into which she had 
copied passages from books that pleased her ; he was sur- 
prised at the extent and judgment of her reading. Some 
household recipes, work-patterns, and half a dozen enigmas 
and charades completed Jessie’s stock of papers. A few trin- 
kets, old-fashioned things of Mrs. Meade’s, were left in the lit- 
tle rosewood dressing-case, among them, wrapped in silver 
paper and inscribed, “ For Philip,” was the ring he had given 
her at their parents’ grave, the opal ring, which she said w 7 as 
unlucky. 

“ But whatever is this ? ” Mrs. Plummer exclaimed, while 
exploring a drawer of clothing at his desire. His heart sank 
at the , sight; for it was a morocco, velvet-lined jewel-case, 
fresh and new, bearing the name of a well-known firm of 
London jewellers in gold letters, and it had evidently been 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 247 

put into the far corner of the drawer for concealment. He 
wrapped it in paper and set it aside for future use. 

“Dear heart!” exclaimed Mrs. Plummer, soon after, as 
something rolled over the bare, white boards from the folds 
of a dress she was vigorously shaking before replacing in the 
drawer, “ how did she come by pearls ? ” 

“ How, indeed ! ” he echoed, picking it up and examining it 
with heavy fear. It was large, of beautiful lustre, and pierced. 
It must have been worn with that dress and dropped from a 
string ; it was no cheap imitation, but a pearl of price, a thing 
she could not possible have bought. He did not like Mrs. 
Plummer to see it ; and put it quickly away, wondering, with 
an awed wonder, that women should sell their souls for stones, 
and be tricked by so poor a thing as the flash of a jewel. 

The last gleam of sunset was gone when he reached the 
riverside, and stood upon the bank at the spot where the 
handkerchief had been found. The place had been a play- 
ground for them as children. Here heavy timbers, chained 
roughly together to prevent their being washed away, were 
laid raft-like, along the river’s edge to be seasoned ; the shore 
ends half bedded in mud, the others lifted and floated by the 
full tide. To stand on the end of a timber-balk, and spring up 
and down, with the water splashing through the cracks when 
the great beams rebounded from the spring, had then been a 
heavenly pleasure. If one performed this dance upon a long 
balk stretching into the river far beyond the others, one had 
the additional happiness of the chance of missing one’s foot- 
ing and going splash into the water, a catastrophe that once 
befell poor little Jessie, whom he had fished out with some 
difficulty and much laughter on his part, and weeping on hers, 
and carried home, a piteous little object like a drowned kit- 
ten. 

Near these timbers was a small grove of stunted oaks, some 
of which leaned over the water ; there boys used to undress 
and, climbing into the trees, take headers from the over-hang- 
ing tops. Opposite was a meadow whence they bathed at full 
tide, drying themselves by the simple process of racing round 
the mead in the sun and wind, shouting and leaping like young 
colts, as innocent of clothes and as unconscious of their need 
as unfallen Adam. 

The meadow was white now, the river was black in the dusk 
by contrast with its snowy banks ; the edges of the timbers 
were scaled by great white flakes of ice, the tide was running 
up, flowing strongly beneath his feet as he stood on the edge of 


248 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


the floating timbers slippery with snow ; the grove was heavy 
with shadows. About a foot beyond the timbers the channel 
was deep ; he knew it well, and so did Jessie ; a slight spring 
from the springy balks and one would be in mid-stream out of 
depth. No house was in sight but the ark, built on a boat at 
the water’s edge, the grove would shelter one from the gaze 
of passers-by. Sally Samson, the old woman who lived there, 
had seen her from her door. Roger had found the handker- 
chief on the timbers ; but what motive had Jessie for self-de- 
struction ? Roger maintained that the scandal had crazed 
her, but Philip thought it would take something stronger 
than mere talk to drive a girl who held secret meetings, re- 
ceived jewels, and was false to her absent lover and friend, to 
desperation. How false Jessie had been, to how solemn a troth- 
plight, to what sacred memories ! False to her dead father 
and all her youth. Yet he did not reproach himself for his 
own passionate swerve from loyalty ; he had conquered his 
heart’s desire and sacrificed all his hopes of advancement to 
keep faith with this frail, slight creature. Besides, he was a 
man, and are not men’s temptations heavier than women’s? 
are not their passions stronger? Must not a man love when 
under the spell of beauty and fascination he does not seek ? 
Is it not criminal for a woman to love at all except at the w T ord of 
command ? Do good women feel the beauty of men — slight 
as it is in the estimation of males — or yield to fascinations 
they have not encouraged ? So Philip thought in his instinc- 
tive male arrogance, drawing conclusions from arbitrarily 
fashioned premises, such as men lay down for women, blindly 
wondering when the latter spoil the syllogism by a false con- 
clusion, and not dreaming that either premise can be false. 

Musing thus, he went along the foot-path toward the black 
ark, whence one red glow from a little window gave comfort- 
able assurance of warmth and humanity amidst the black and 
white desolation of the snow-wrapped fields and deserted, 
dark-flowing river. Thence another and broader glow stream- 
ed at his approach, as Sally opened her little door at the top 
of the railed gangway leading to her ark and stood in the 
keen open air, a quaint figure, familiar to him from early 
childhood, calling to her dog. 

“Good evening, Sally,” he called out, stopping at the foot 
of the gangway which passed from the bank over the water at 
flood and over shingle at ebb tide ; “ don’t you remember 
Philip Randal, of Stillbrooke Mill ? ” 

“ Meade’s boy ? Yes, I minds ’en,” she replied, taking a 
pinch of snuff and surveying him with a critical air. “ Grow^ 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


249 


ed,” she added after a few seconds, when she dipped down 
into her ark beckoning to him to follow into the warm little 
nest. 

It was an old tub of a boat some ten feet long, shored up 
by timbers firmly sunk in the river’s bed, so that the tide 
could not float it off. A low plank wall rose from its sides 
some two feet or three feet high, this was topped by a slant 
wooden roof like an inverted boat. With its tiny windows, one 
shoreward and one riverward, its little door and its stove-pipe 
through the roof, it was exactly like the Noah’s Ark the chil-. 
dren used to play with, and it was a thrilling joy to them to 
go there of a summer afternoon, especially at full tide, when 
it seemed to float on the river, to draw in the gangway and 
have tea in the marvellous little house, every inch of space in 
which had been utilized for Sally’s limited needs. 

Philip felt like a giant as he descended two steps and sat on 
the chest by the little grate, which blazed cheerily with burn- 
ing driftwood and bits of old boats ; there was the little 
dresser with bits of shining crockery, the curtained bed-place, 
the geranium in the window, the few pots and pans, the 
candlestick, the seashells, lumps of coral, and other sea treas- 
ures, the Maltese doll once the desire of Jessie’s eyes, and the 
full-rigged model frigate, long the desire of his own. How 
delicious Sally’s milkless tea used to be in this fairy dwelling, 
and Sally herself, what a marvellous picturesque old sibyl she 
looked as she sat taking her snuff, the scent of which seemed 
to Philip like a memory of infancy, relating tale after tale, 
chiefly of the sea. So she sat to-day in the winter firelight 
as she used to sit in the summer sunglow, the same quaint 
figure, with the same brown expressionless face surrounded by 
the flapping white cap-frill of her cap, the same bare, brown 
arms, which, like the face, seemed carved in old oak ; the same 
dingy crossover shawl, the same scanty dark skirt that he re- 
membered in boyhood. Summer and winter, indoors and 
out, Sally’s attire never varied, thus she rowed on the river 
in sun or wind, wet or cold. 

He had brought her a packet of snuff, and some Indian 
figures to add to her curiosities. She received them with a 
grunt of satisfaction ; then she rose, and opening a tiny cup- 
board above the little fireplace brought forth a black bottle 
containing some pale, clear cognac which she poured into one 
of the old china tea-cups and gave him, and which he knew well 
had never passed the custom-house. While she did this, he 
took rapid stock of the familiar objects in the cabin, and saw 
on a little shelf with the Bible and Pilgrim’s Progress, a rail- 


250 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


way time-table, which his quick eye made out to be of last 
year’s date. 

He talked of old times, and of the Crimea and the Mutiny, 
and then Sally began, as she always did after a taste from the 
black bottle, one of her stories. He listened silently till she 
became almost unconscious of his presence, and she rambled 
on, as she probably did in the long nights and summer days 
when she sat alone, her mind thrown back on the past. 

Then, when she paused and fell to staring before her into 
the glowing wood-coals, he said, without preamble : 

“ Who was in the boat with you and Miss Jessie last Octo- 
ber, Sally?” 

“Never a soul,” she replied, still gazing into the fire, her 
head slightly bowed forward and her hands resting on her 
knees. 

“ And how long were you rowing to Lynmouth, that fine, 
calm day ? ” he added, keeping his hand before his eyes while 
his elbow was on the table, lest she should turn and catch the 
eager, pained interest that he could keep out of his voice but 
not out of his face. 

“ Matter of a hour ; tide agen us,” she said, absently, being, 
for so practised a story-teller, short of speech, doubtless 
made her tales tell the more. 

“And you had. to pull well, wanting to catch the mid-day 
boat, no doubt?” he continued, vainly trying to speak care- 
lessly. 

But either some vibration in his voice or his persistent cate- 
chising, roused the old woman, and she turned and eyed him 
sharply. 

“ Who’s talking of boats? ” she growled. 

“Look here, Sally,” said Philip, “let all be square, fair, 
and above board. How much did she give you to put the 
Plummers off the scent ? ” 

Sally looked at him and took more snuff, not unmoved by 
the apparently irrelevant fact that he sent his fingers into his 
waistcoat pocket and caused the mellow chink of coin to be 
heard. 

“ Pound,” she said. “ What’s your’n ? ” 

“ One pound ten,” he replied, producing the money. 

“’Taint enough,” said Sally, promptly. 

“ That’s a pity,” he returned, “ there’s no more to be had. 
Thirty shillings are not picked up every day.” 

“Ah, dear, I be a lone ooman,” moaned Sally, eyin" the 
bright gold wistfully. ' J b 

“I am her guardian, in place of her father,” continued 




Iisr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


251 


Philip. “ She didn’t know I was coming home yet and very 
likely wrote to tell me all about it. I daresay the letter 
reached India just as I stepped ashore.” 

“Not she, didn’t want nobody to know,” Sally said. 

“For the first days, perhaps. But she may be wanting 
money now and I not able to send it ” He took up the two 
gold pieces and tossed them on the table as he spoke. 

“ What ’ll ye do to her ? ” she asked, following the coins 
with her eyes. 

“ See that she wants nothing, poor child ! and that — that 
nobody does her harm,” he muttered, brokenly. 

“Make it two, lad, ah, deary me ! I be a lone lorn ooman. 
Make it two, dear,” she said, coaxingly. 

He clinked another half sovereign down on the little table 
and Sally covered the three bright coins with her hard, brown 
hand. 

“Winter’s hard, living’s hard, ’tis hard to be a lone 
ooman,” she muttered, clutching the gold, yet staring irreso- 
lutely into the fire. 

“Still harder to be alone when young and beautiful and 
unprotected,” added Philip. “It will be the best day’s work 
you ever did in your life, Sally, if you just tell the whole 
truth.” 

“Ah, deary, dear! She begged and prayed and settled 
the day and hour and tide long afore. She fixed twice, but 
couldn’t get down here. ‘ How ’ll you live away from your 
folk ? ’ I asked. ‘ I shan’t want, Sally,’ she says. ‘ My fortune’ll 
be made. I’m gwine where the ground is covered with gold,’ 
she says.” 

“ Did she come alone ? ” asked Philip, in his deepest voice. 

“Alone, as lone as the dead. Once gone, no coming back, 
I tells her. No good. Go she must.” 

“What did she take with her? Boxes?” 

“ Box and a bag. Jim fetched it from Cleeve. She giv 
him five shillings. Just catched the boat at Lynmouth 
Pier.” 

“Who met her there?” 

“Man carried her things aboard.” 

“How was he dressed? Like a gentleman's servant?” he 
continued in an agitated voice. 

“Lord knows. A bit of brass tied on’s arm. There was a 
lot more like ’en helping off boxes.” 

“ Oh, a porter,” he said with relief. 

Further questioning elicited nothing more of importance, 
so enjoining reticence upon the old sibyl, Philip took his 


252 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


leave of her, and stumbled out of the tiny nutshell into the 
night with his worst fears confirmed. 

What duplicity, what a long course of intrigue on the part 
of this young, soft, tender thing. Who could blame him for 
having no suspicion of double dealing in that quarter ? Why 
he would as soon have thought of suspecting one of Heaven’s 
whitest angels. 

Half way across the snowy field, which sloped somewhat 
steeply down to the river, he stopped and looked back at the 
solitary light in Sally’s tiny window. He could just see the 
dark mass of the oak-grove, the black blot in which the one 
red eye of light glowed, and the darkness of the river flow- 
ing between its ghostly gleaming banks ; it was a clear, moon- 
less, still night, the black vault of sky blazed with the white 
fire of innumerable frosty stars, the light of which reflected 
from the snow was sufficient to walk by and discern objects 
in outline. 

He took something from his pocket and hurled it with the 
widest sweep of his arm toward the dark river ; it glittered 
in the pallid light, making a tiny trail as it flew like the tini- 
est of falling stars and vanished. It was the opal ring he 
had given Jessie at her parents’ grave. 


CHAPTER YH. 


THE SEARCH. 

The news that Jessie was undoubtedly still alive was too 
heavy to be broken at once at Redwoods. Philip was glad of 
the long, silent walk back over the snow, during which he 
could think it over and decide how much it would be desir- 
able to reveal. 

Before returning to the farm, he turned aside and called 
at the Rectory, the lights of which shone invitingly on the 
snowy lawn between the trees. Here he was received with a 
friendly warmth that gave him the only home-feeling he had 
had in England. Mr. Ingleby had heard of his unexpected re- 
turn the night before, and came out into the hall to welcome 
him, silently pressing his hand and drawing him into his 
snug study, where a mundane odor of bird’s-eye tobacco 
was distinctly recognizable ; and where fishing rods and guns 
adorned the walls, along with shelves laden with ponderous 
theological tomes. 

“I got your letter, and came at once,” Philip said, when 
they were seated opposite each other before the fire. 

“ Too late,” Mr. Ingleby returned, “ if I hadn’t been as big 
an ass as ever brayed in a pulpit, I should have written long 
before. As it is, I might have spared my meddling and left 
you out there in peace.” 

“ Not at all, I can never be too grateful to you for writing,” 
Philip rejoined, warmly. 

“She was in the wrong place, Phil,” continued Mr. Ingle- 
by ; “ that is how it all happened. Poor dear child. She 
asked me to intercede with you and the other guardians to 
get her away from Redwoods, and I, like a fool, advised her to 
stay and make puddings for her cousin. I thought it mere 
girlish discontent and idleness, and never dreamed that the 
dear child wanted to fly from temptation. I see it all now. 
If I had been a woman, she might have told me — or a Cath- 
olic priest. By Jove, Phil, the confessional is a fine institu- 
tion, let Protestants rant as they will.” 


254 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Do you think,” asked Philip, turning very red with a 
sudden rush of thought, “ surely you don’t think that was 
why she was so anxious to leave the place?” 

“ Yes, yes,” he replied, sighing heavily, “ that was at the 
bottom of all ; she was tempted, she knew her own weakness 
and saw that flight was the only thing. Think, Phil, of the 
mental and moral loneliness of that sweet child — of her inno- 
cence and ignorance, and remember the antagonist she was 
pitted against — the cool-headed, cold-hearted man of the 
world, versed in all its slippery ways, ten years her senior, 
with the serpent’s own beguiling tongue, and — by heavens ! ” 

He rose, trying to throw off his indignation by bodily 
movement, in the course of which he upset two chairs and 
brought down a set of fishing tackle with a crash ; while 
Philip muttered some fierce anathema against the unnamed 
object of Mr. Ingleby’s just anger. 

“But the deceit,” Philip said in a deep voice, shaken with 
anger, “ innocence does not deceive and plot. Innocence 
does not make and keep secret assignations in w r oods.” 

“ Innocence knows no harm in assignations,” Mr. Ingleby 
rejoined, “ I vow to you, Philip, upon my honor, that those 
meetings were guileless in intention on her part. Why, when 
I told her of the cackle on that day when my sister’s virtue 
took the alarm and she froze the dear child with her Gorgon 
scowl, she couldn’t see the harm, wanted to know why it 
was worse to be seen walking in woods with him than with 
me ” 

“Absurd,” Philip broke in with cruel candor, “at your 
age.” 

“ H’m. Well, I believe I have some nine years the advan- 
tage of that fellow. “As a matter of fact,” he added with 
some embarrassment, “ she was seen walking with me — and — 
ah — well, I may as well say at once that there has been some 
attempt to put the blame on me.” 

“ On you ! ” Philip laughed aloud. “And where and when, 
may I ask, did these romantic troubles take place ? ” he added 
with a certain savage mirth, whereupon Mr. Ingleby explained 
the occasions on which he and Jessie had been seen together, 
the one accidental meeting by the stream and the various 
times of escorting her home. “ You see,” he said in con- 
clusion, “ those other meetings have been equally accidental 
on her part.” 

“You are a staunch friend,” said Philip, with a kind of 
gloomy satisfaction ; “ but how do you explain the disappear- 
ance ? Suicide ? ” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


255 


Mr. Ingleby quivered. “God only knows,” lie replied, 
“what a sensitive, friendless girl may do in desperation.” 

“ Not that,” Philip rejoined in a harsh voice. “I can’t lay 
that flattering unction to my soul.” And he told his friend 
what he had just learned from Sally Samson, and was surprised 
to find that Mr. Ingleby, though viewing the intelligence with 
gravity, was not much startled. “ And I could have killed 
the old woman for telling me,” he almost sobbed in conclu- 
sion. 

“ Philip ! Philip ! ” cried Mr. Ingleby, suddenly appreciat- 
ing the depth of the young man’s grief and laying his hand 
with gentle firmness on his shoulder. “Poor boy! A heavy 
burden is laid upon you. God help you, dear lad ! ” 

“ Matthew and Martha were so proud of her,” he said brok- 
enly, “ and she was trusted to ‘me. But what could I do ? I 
had to go out. And then the mutiny.” 

“ You could not do otherwise. But she was too young to 
be really won before you left. And with such rare beauty — 
there was temptation on every side.” 

“ She was a pretty child,” he assented, rather coldly. 

“She was an unusually beautiful woman,” returned Mr. 
Ingleby, with fervor. “ She developed marvellously of late. 
You did not see her — as we did. She tried to be true. She 
struggled against temptation.” 

“ A good girl does not allow herself to be tempted ; she is 
true without trying.” 

Mr. Ingleby removed his caressing hand from Philip’s 
shoulder ; he thought him hard and unjust, but he considered 
the bitterness of an injured lover. 

“ What shall you do? ” he asked after some minutes’ silence. 

“God knows,” replied Philip, heavily. “Of course,” he 
added after a gloomy pause, “ I shall leave no stone unturned 
to effect a marriage. And I shall probably thrash him pub- 
licly.” 

“ It would be tempting,” said Mr. Ingleby, thoughtfully re- 
flecting how he should enjoy doing it. “ But I wouldn’t do 
that, if I were you, certainly not yet, and most decidedly not 
till the thing is proved. 

“Proved! ” cried Philip with scorn. 

“ Certainly, proved beyond doubt. You are very ready to 
accept the worse conclusion, dear lad, and in your truly cruel 
position one cannot blame you.” 

“ My good soul,” returned Philip, desperately, “ how in the 
name of all that is maddening is any other conclusion pos- 
sible ? What other can you even suggest ? ” 


256 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Have patience and listen to a man much older than your- 
self, and at least more experienced if not wiser ; venerate 
these gray hairs, Phil,” he added pointing to some silver 
threads which had appeared in his blue-black curly hair of 
late, together with some lines about the eyes and mouth and 
a haggard harassed look quite foreign to his sweet and sunny 
nature. “It is my impression, confirmed by what Sally Sam- 
son told you this morning, that poor dear Jessie went alone/’ 

“Yes, as far as London, where that scoundrel met her.” 

“He went to London that day, so did L We did not meet 
or catch a glimpse of one another.” 

“He would take care of that. Besides, Mr. Ingleby, what 
possible motive could she have for going alone ? ” He did 
not like to add that he knew that she could have had no 
money for the journey. 

“ Two motives,” settling himself in a chair and crossing 
his legs with the air of an assured advocate, “first, to flee 
temptation ; secondly, to fly disgrace.” 

“Which she merely courted,” Philip objected. 

“ Look here, Phil,” Mr. Ingleby continued, earnestly. “ I 
don’t think you quite realize what scurrilous talk may mean 
to a sensitive, high-spirited, pure-minded girl. You know 
that I told her, heaven only knows how clumsily and brutally, 
but there was no one else to do it. You know how my sister 
behaved, and you may imagine what Mrs. Plummer’s gentle 
spiriting would have been like, so I had to put my great 
blundering paw into the matter for the dear child’s sake — I 
wish to heaven I had left it alone — and yet she must have 
heard sooner or later. And I have since found that women 
had been cutting her right and left. Con -found these virtu- 
ous women, Philip ! Why can’t they preserve their ferocious 
virtue without driving sweet and gentle creatures to despera- 
tion ? By J ove ! if I were a layman I could say some things ! 
Well, I am warranted as it is in saying that many a poor, 
drunken, fool-mouthed outcast reeling along the streets to- 
day will pass into Heaven before these Pharisaic Plummers 
and people. I’ve preached and I’ll preach again — but, no I 
won’t, it only makes them worse, the moment they scent a 
personal application. But I tell you this,” he cried, bringing 
his fist down on the table so that the lamp clattered and the 
dog sleeping on the rug woke up and barked, “ if that old 
harridan — I mean if that con — if Mrs. Plummer opened her 
door this night and saw that sweet child in the cold, she 
would shut it in her face — for the mere suspicion and scan- 
dal, guilty or not guilty. My sister would do the same. And 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


257 


if she had erred and returned penitent, either of these bit- 
terly righteous women would drive her forth with blows 
rather than receive her. And then those dam — those exec— 
those Pharisees would stalk grimly to church and expect me to 
give them the Sacrament. Philip, Jessie had a taste of my 
sister’s Christian charity beneath this very roof, and she knew 
the coarse treatment Mrs. Plummer was likely to afford a 
: tempted or compromised girl. She knew that in the eyes of 
the gossips she was compromised, for I told her— God forgive 
l me — and the stony-faced Pharisees told her more by their 
silence and grim looks. To what rash acts such desperation 
might drive her I fear to think, but she might well have run 
away to hide from this storm of calumny, as I believe she 
did, she went off in the very heart of the storm. Poor child, 
poor dear child ! ” he added sitting dowm with thick-coming 
i breath and covering his face. 

Philip was comforted by this outburst, for we like sympathy, 

; and the more our hearts and even tongues accuse those dear 
to us the better do we like others to defend them, but he was 
surprised as 'well as comforted, especially surprised at the he- 
terodox fury with which Mr. Ingleby assailed the fierceness 
of female virtue as manifested in his own sister and Mrs. 

: Plummer, who could scarcely be expected, he thought, to 
behave otherwise than Mr. Ingleby indicated. He ventured 
to make some observation to that effect, saying that female 
honor was of such vital importance to society, that no 
price was too high to pay for it, that the suffering, even if un- 
merited, of individuals, was as nothing in comparison with 
the virtue of the whole sex, and such like platitudes. 

“Virtue!” cried Mr. Ingleby, passionately, “virtue be — 
by Heaven, Philip, it is enough to make a saint swear to see 
the cruelty perpetrated on women in the name of virtue. I 
tell you, man, that all this twaddle is in the interest of vice 
and not virtue. It is this that makes our cities sinks of foul- 
„ ness, it is this that drives tempted or misled innocence into 
the ranks of the outcast army, that army of oppressed misery 
that in its turn tempts and oppresses and preys on the vitals 
of society, it is this that shuts every door of hope upon her 
who has slipped but once and declares in a voice of thunder, 

‘ henceforth thou shalt sin more and more,’ in Satanic oppo- 
sition to the gospel, 4 sin no more.’ This cruelty to the one 
sex, the weak and defenceless, in fiendish wedlock with total 
immunity to the other sex, the strong and aggressive — ” 
He paused for want of words to his passion, and Philip 
broke in, horrified. 


258 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Surely, surely you would not condone such wrong on the 
part of any woman ? Why, it would be an insult and outrage 
to those we are bound to reverence to the utmost to permit 
the once fallen to mingle with them.” 

“I would condone nothing,” he replied, more tranquilly, 
eased by this outburst ; “ but I cannot see why women are 
more injured by the society of sinful women than of sinful 
men, which the best of their sex are expected to endure daily. 
For instance, I doubt if Claude Medway’s society would have 
*been more baneful to that sweet girl if he had been a lady,” 
he added, grimly smiling. 

“ Women think otherwise.” 

“ It is the mystery of mysteries that women should be so 
hard on women. It must be owned that here their cruelty 
passes men’s.” 

“ For their honor’s sake,” Philip said ; “ and for this we 
honor women. But surely,” he added, returning from theory 
to fact, “Jessie could not have run away from slander. She 
had better have taken her life at once. What should she do 
alone in the world ? Where would she shelter ? Who would 
befriend her ? Why, a child of thirteen could do nothing 
more frantically foolish.” 

“ Heaven only knows what she thought, in worldly matters 
she was such a child,” Mr. Ingleby replied, with his eyes full 
of tears. “ I have sometimes wondered if she thought she 
could support herself by painting. She did sell one or two 
of her pictures.” 

“ She would have come back long ago in that case,” Philip 
replied, thinking this theory too wild even for conjecture. 

“Would she? ” asked Mr. Ingleby with heart-stricken em- 
phasis, and both were silent for some moments with fears 
they dared not express. 

Then Mr. Ingleby told Philip of Claude Medway’s strenu- 
ous denials of all knowledge of Jessie’s whereabouts, and his 
expressed anxiety concerning her. He added the significant 
fact that the supposed engagement between Medway and his 
cousin was undoubtedly at an end, since Miss Lonsdale was 
engaged to and about to marry the Marquis of Bardexter, 
whose family was more remarkable for antiquity than wealth. 
Finally, at Philip’s request he related all that he knew of Jes- 
sie’s history during his absence in India and ended with a 
vivid depicture of her beauty and grace, her sweet manner, 
her modest bearing, her singular intelligence and taste. 

“ Upon my honor,” Philip thought when he left, greatly 
heartened by his interview, “ if the dear old fellow were ten 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


259 


years younger I should think he was in love with her him- 
self.” 

The next afternoon he called at Harwell Court. Sir Ar- 
thur took his visit as a matter of course, regretted that 
Lady Gertrude was not at home, spoke of the interest with 
which he had followed his movements in India and heard of 
his distinction, and talked of the Mutiny. 

“Sir Arthur,” Philip broke in at last, “you do not perhaps 
know that I am one of the guardians of Miss Jessie Meade, 
respecting whose — ah — connection with some members of 
your family I am anxious to know everything that can be 
known.” 

“ Quite so,” replied Sir Arthur, with a sudden change of 
manner. “It is a sad business. I have done all I could to 
get to the bottom of it, in vain. It has occasioned great 
distress in my family. My daughter, who is an invalid, as 
you may know, was attached to Miss Meade, whose society 
was the means of beguiling many weary hours for her. My 
niece, Miss Lonsdale, was first struck by Miss Meade’s sin- 
gular beauty and refinement and brought her to my house, 
where I was glad to receive her as your future wife as well 
as for her own sake. Miss Meade was not well placed at 
Eedwoods. The Plummers are excellent people, for whom I 
have the highest respect, but they are strangely out of har- 
mony with her.” 

“Miss Meade was born in that station,” said Philip, 
stiffly, “ and I was bred in it.” 

“ Pardon me, Miss Meade was bred out of it, and had virt- 
ually left it in becoming engaged to you. Whatever your 
breeding may have been, Philip, and you can choose it yourself, 
remember, you have amply justified your gentle birth. In 
spite of my natural interest in a young lady of beauty so 
rare,” he continued, “I tried to discourage my niece’s inti- 
macy with her. Miss Lonsdale is in the habit of forming 
sudden and ardent friendships and as suddenly getting tired 
of them. I considered Miss Meade too good for such treat- 
ment. But ladies sometimes have wills of their own. Miss 
Medway then became interested in Miss Meade, who was 
able to soothe my daughter’s sufferings as no one else could. 
Seeing this, I offered her a home in this house. Had she 
accepted it, she would have had the advantage of Lady Ger- 
trude’s personal supervision and guidance, she would have 
been a privileged inmate and enjoyed every comfort and con- 
sideration as my daughter’s companion. This, to my regret, 
she declined. She would have been as a daughter to me, for 


260 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


the charm of her companionship is not less than that of her 
beauty. And when you returned to claim her I had pictured 
to myself a marriage from this house. She continued to be 
a welcome guest here until October ; when we were pained 
by her refusal to visit my daughter, and soon after that 
startled by the news of her mysterious disappearance, to 
which, in spite of the absurd rumors circulating on such oc- 
casions, there has been not the slightest clue. My own opin- 
ion is that some accident befell her.” 

“Did you ever make her any present? ” Philip asked, sud- 
denly rousing himself from gloomy reflections. 

“Nothing beyond fruit and flowers. She was not a girl 
with whom one would venture a liberty of that kind.” 

“ Do you know if your daughter gave her a present ? ” 

“You shall see Miss Medway herself, only let me beg of 
you not to distress her by any surmise of a — a — painful nat- 
ure.” 

But Ethel had given Jessie no presents, they found on in- 
quiry. Then Philip spoke of the share attributed to Claude 
in Jessie’s disappearance. 

“ Surely,” Sir Arthur replied, “you do your sister grievous 
wrong by crediting these reports. And as the world regards 
these things, you do not injure my son.” 

“ Why injure him ? ” returned Philip, coldly. “ But I shall 
do so unless he is able to explain his conduct to my satisfac- 
tion. No man has a right, whatever his intentions may be, 
to compromise a young girl, ignorant as she was of the ways 
of the world, by walking alone in woods with her as he 
undoubtedly did.” 

“ If you take my advice,” said Sir Arthur, “ you will let 
Claude alone. He knows no more of the matter than you do. 
He scarcely knew her. I give you his address and warn you 
against rashly dragging your ward’s name in the dust. I am 
sorry that this miserable scandal should have arisen, and will 
afford every possible help to clear it up ; but I warn you that 
a young woman’s name is best guarded by silence.” 

So Philip thought, but he was unshaken in his conviction 
as to the cause of Jessie’s disappearance. In the event of 
any accident to Jessie her remains must sooner or later have 
been discovered, the coincidence of Claude’s sudden journey 
on the day of her disappearance after a meeting between 
them on the previous evening was remarkable. 

Before leaving the house, Philip was summoned to see 
Miss Lonsdale, whom he had once met when dining at Mar- 
well Court after the Crimea. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


261 


She received him in a conservatory, a pleasant contrast 
to the snowy out-cloor world, with its palms, orange-trees, 
oleanders, and semi-tropical flowers which reminded him of 
his last meeting with Ada Maynard. “ Never let me regret,” 
he seemed to hear Ada say in her moving voice. “ It is easy 
enough to die. Living is the hard part.” 

“ Oh ! ” thought Clara, rising from the silk and gold orien- 
tal stuffs covering a low divan-like seat beneath a palm near 
a fountain, and seeing the strong, lance-straiglit figure, the 
bronzed face and straightforward gaze, “ she might have been 
content. She might have left my darling to me.” 

Then she told Philip that, having introduced Jessie to that 
house, she felt in some degree responsible for her, and 
wished to explain to her guardian, as far as sbe knew, all that 
had occurred before the sudden disappearance. She de- 
scribed the intimacy which had so suddenly sprung up, in 
her own fashion, and dwelt upon Jessie’s charm and intellect 
in a way that surprised Philip. “ I had heard reports,” she 
said, “ that I did not believe. Jessie seemed so artless, spoke 
so openly of her engagement, showed me your portrait. Who 
could believe wrong of her ? ” 

“Who indeed?” echoed Philip, gloomily. 

Clara, whose agitation gave her a certain dark splendor 
well set off by the furs she had thrown back on coming in 
from an outdoor walk, together with the gold and crimson 
silken cushions of the couch and the oriental foliage near, 
looked keenly at Philip’s downcast face and then smiled to 
herself. “ It was not until July,” she continued, “ that my 
suspicions were aroused.” 

“ So long ago? ” 

“Aroused and confirmed at once,” she went on, her golden 
brown eyes sparkling with green lights. “Arriving unex- 
pectly at Marwell one evening, I surprised an interview in the 
gallery.” 

“ Oh! ” cried Philip, “why was I not told in time ?” 

“ No one but Miss Medway was in the house at the time. 
The scene was painful in the extreme. Still, I hoped it might 
be nothing more .than girlish vanity. I afterward spoke se- 
riously to her, pointing out the — the danger of such an inti- 
macy. It was then, Captain Randal, that I discovered how 
greatly I had been mistaken in a girl I had thought so sweet 
and guileless. I saw at once that it was he who needed 
protection from a consummate actress and schemer. She 
knew perfectly what she was about. But she over-reached 
herself — I am afraid I pain you, shall I stop ? Well, it is best 


IS THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


202 


you should know all — she will never now, as she intended, be 
mistress of Marwell Court.” 

“ How do you know ? What do you know, Miss Lonsdale — 
let me know all, no matter what. Only speak out.” 

“Listen, then,” she replied, passionately clasping her hands 
so strainingly together that the blood crimsoned to the finger 
tips, while a small jewel at her wrist flashed in the pale winter 
sunshine, and her breath came so quickly that she was obliged 
to pause before she could speak. “ They met on the after- 
noon before her disappearance. I took shelter from a storm 
in a shed in the plantations not far from the keeper’s lodge. 
It was dark from the storm. I was invisible, probably. Two 
people came running in — my cousin and Jessie. They were 
too much preoccupied to observe that they were not alone. 
Their conversation appeared to be of absorbing interest. But 
afterward, when the storm abated, I could not help overhear- 
ing.” 

“ You did not betray your presence ? ” 

She blushed. “ What right had I to suppose that their 
meeting was secret?” she said. 

“ She is under age. I am her guardian. It is right and 
just to her that I should know,” he added. 

“ That is precisely why I am telling you,” she said, coldly, 
“ I could not help hearing him explain why he could not 
marry her ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Philip, “ not that ! ” 

“ Could not marry her legally. He pointed out from what 
I could not help gathering — Captain Randal I am paining you, 
but I think it better that you should hear all, as I perceive 
you still have doubts ” 

He assented with a silent gesture. 

“ He reminded her that it was too late to draw back ” 

“No, no, oh, no ! ” he said ; “but were there no details of 
this flight?” 

“ She was to go to Cleeve by the carrier, and leave him a 
mile from the town ; then a carriage would be waiting, and 
he would join her.” 

“And you knew this and did not prevent it? Oh, Miss 
Lonsdale ! ” 

“ How could I ? ” she replied, plaintively. “ Do you think 
it a pleasant thing for me to have to tell you this? I had 
vainly warned her once. When I heard of her actual disap- 
pearance, I thought that the kindest thing I could do was to 
be silent, the mischief being done.” 

“ And yet you tell me.” 


IjV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 263 

“ Surely you have a right to know ; I would have told you 
then had you been at hand.” 

“ And you tell this out of consideration to me — a stranger.” 

“ Certainly not. But you will, I know, seek to find her. 
Mrs. Plummer would shut her doors in her face. And I was 
- deeply attached to poor Jessie, remember.” 

“ Bid you ever give her presents ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, a few books.” 

“ Nothing else ? ” 

I “ Nothing whatever.” 

A heavy, heavy sigh came from Philip. “ I am afraid,” he 
I said, looking up after some seconds’ silence, during which she 
regarded him with a singular expression, “that I have re- 
ceived your intelligence churlishly. The matter is too des- 
perate for civility. But I do thank you.” 

“ If it is pain for you to hear,” she sighed, “ for me to tell 
it is — ah ! — Captain Ban dal,” she added hastily in a calmer 
tone, “I have one request to make in return for my commu- 
nication. What has just passed between us must go no fur- 
ther. On your honor.” 

“If I find it necessary to publish the facts, which you may 
be very sure I shall not do unnecessarily,” he replied after 
some consideration, “ I promise faithfully that your name 
shall not be mentioned.” And with that she had to be content. 

When he was gone she rose and paced up and down the 
marble pavement, pale, palpitating. To have let herself down 
in the eyes of this stranger was bitter indeed. He had cross- 
questioned her, seen the jealousy gnawing at her vitals, known 
that her love had been won and slighted, read her through 
and through. It was some balm to see him quiver beneath her 
tidings. Bevenge is sweet, she mused, feeling that she had 
dealt something worse than death to Jessie, and she knew not 
what evil to Claude. Some sweets are chiefly delightful in 
anticipation, and turn to ashes within the lips ; revenge is one 
of these — its ashes are acrid poison corroding the vitals. 

Philip went over the old ground which had been already 
taken at Jessie’s disappearance, questioned and cross-ques- 
tioned old Winstone, the carrier, who took her on the first 
stage of her journey, interrogated the people at the Crown 
and Sceptre, Sally Samson’s nephew, who carried the luggage 
thence to the ark, even poor Miss Blushford, who wept bit- 
terly, knowing no more of Jessie’s movements than a new- 
born babe. That same afternoon he called on Mr. Cheese- 
man, with whom he was closeted for some hours, and from 
whom he obtained no fresh light. 


CHAPTER YHL 


FACE TO FACE. 

No more time was wasted at Cleeve. Leaving Roger 
Plummer and even Mr. Ingleby in happy ignorance of the 
latest intelligence of Jessie, Philip appeared at Claude Med- 
way’s house in town the second morning after his visit to 
MarwelL 

He was shown into a room near the door, opening into the 
small hall, while a servant took his card in. The door being 
left ajar, he could hear all that passed there. 

“ No use,” a servant was saying to a pallid, disreputable, 
elderly man whom he had observed on entering, “ Orders 
strict. As much as my place is worth. The captain won’t 
see you, out or in. You’d better be off.” 

Here the man, who bore some strange, far-off traces of 
having been a gentleman, despite his shabby, unkempt ap- 
pearance and hang-dog look, and who recalled some vague 
memories to Philip’s mind, began to swear, an art in which 
he seemed to be a proficient. 

“ He must see me,” he said, after relieving his mind by this 
discharge ; “ I have to meet a bill, and haven’t a blessed shil- 
ling in the world.” 

“ Walker,” returned the servant impatiently. “ Come, hook 
it, will you? He’s said he’ll see you Wednesday.” 

“ Only a minute,” the shabby suppliant whined with maud- 
lin tears; “may you never know, young man, what it is to 
want ” 

“ Come, stow it and be off, and take and write what you 
want to the governor,” cried the servant, losing patience and 
bundling him unceremoniously out of doors after a slight 
scuffle. “ If there’s much more of this, Charles, I give warn- 
ing,” he grumbled to the servant who had taken Philip’s card 
and was returning to show him upstairs. “ If the captain 
wants to have respectable servants, he must be more select 
in his acquaintance. Like his cheek to expect a man of my 
standing to open the door to half the blackguards in Lon- 
don.” 


IB THE BEAUT OE THE BTORAt. 


£65 

Claude Medway was sitting at breakfast in a first floor rooni 
looking out over Hyde Park, which was illumined this tnorn-* 
ing by some gleams of Wintry sunlight His face brightened 
at the sight of Philip’s card. 

Philip, on the contrary, Went Up the stairs with a grim face, 
and a terrible apprehension lest lie might be too near to one 
very dear to him, and was surprised at the warm, almost eager 
greeting he received. 

He was even more surprised at the change in Claude. At 
least ten years seemed to have cast their shadow over Claude 
Medway’s haggard face, his sunken eyes had a harassed gaze, 
his manner had not the old assurance, he looked like one who 
has passed through desperate mental anguish. And yet, as 
Philip had been told, things went well with him. Marwell 
Court was no longer in danger of being sold, since an aunt, 
the widow of a rich banker, had, to everyone’s surprise and 
especially Claude’s, who had been told that all her money 
was to go to founding a missionary college, quietly taken 
leave of this life, bequeathing the whole of her fine fortune, 
including the house near Hyde Park, to her “beloved 
nephew, Claude Medway.” Owing to this, her beloved 
nephew, Claude, felt the sting of his cousin’s desertion less 
keenly than he might otherwise have done, and Sir Arthur 
was relieved from his pecuniary embarrassments. The fort- 
unate legatee had already sent in his papers when this unex- 
pected windfall came to him. Philip had heard of his dis- 
appearance from club life as well as from the service, he had 
been living in seclusion, nobody knew where, ever since before 
the golden shower descended upon him. 

Philip did not appear to see the hand offered him. “Yes,” 
he replied, “ my coming home was sudden and unpremedi- 
tated. I came at a moment’s warning in consequence of what 
I heard concerning my ward and adopted sister, Miss Jessie 
Meade. Where is she ? ” 

The momentary radiance died from Claude Medway’s face. 
“ Is it possible that you do not know? ” he returned. “ She 
did not tell you f ” 

“ Certainly not. I am here to ask where she is. I am one 
of her guardians and she is under age. This is a very serious 
affair, Captain Medway. This young lady has been missing 
for nearly three months and her friends have been unable to 
find any trace of her.” 

“It is both sad and serious,” Claude replied; “to me it 
is, and has been a subject for deep regret. But why, may 
I ask, do you come to me for information ? ” 


2(16 


JA r THE HEART OF THE STORM 


“For the simple reason that yon are the only person in a 
position to give it.” 

“And what leads you to that supposition?” he asked 
quietly. 

“I know perhaps more than you think. I have seen Sally 
Samson and heard all.” 

“ Who is Sally Samson ? ” 

“ This man is a good actor,” thought Philip, almost aghast 
at his tranquil way of putting the question. 

“ Do you expect me to believe, that you know nothing of 
the ark on the river’s bank? ” he said, sternly. 

“I know the ark well,” Claude replied ; “an old woman 
lives there and ferries people across. Is that your Sally 
Samson ? What of her ? ” 

“ Only that she told me the true story of the handkerchief.” 

“ The handkerchief — Ah ! ” his face quivered slightly. 
“ And what of it? ” 

“It is unnecessary to tell what you know too well,” Philip 
said, impatiently. “Let us have no beating about the bush. 
Tell me at once where Jessie is. You cannot expect to 
blind me as you have blinded others. I have evidence, solid 
evidence, to justify legal proceedings. I have not yet con- 
sulted lawyers — I only landed three days since — but I shall 
do so at once unless you satisfy me by producing her. I 
don’t know much about law, but it strikes me that abduction 
is rather a serious affair. I am nearly sure that with or 
without consent, carrying off a minor is abduction.” 

Claude looked at Philip with dumb surprise, then he 
turned from him and took a few turns in the room. 

“Pray take a seat,” he said at last, but Philip preferred to 
stand, a vertical posture gives a certain firmness of mental 
poise and sense of power. 

“It is not very easy,” said Claude, “to abduct a young 
lady fully grown, and in possession of all her faculties in a 
thickly populated country lined with railways,” and he smiled, 
as if amused at the extravagance of the supposition. “You 
cannot surely mean to insult your sister by supposing her 
capable of running away with me. You, who have known her 
all her life.” 

“You do yourself injustice,” Philip returned ; “to a young 
girl quite ignorant of the world, a secret marriage with a 
man like you, though not strictly right, would not appear so 
very great a degradation.” 

“You think, then, that I have married her?” he asked with 
a peculiar emphasis. 


nr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


207 


“ Heaven only knows what you have done. I know that 
you have taken her away, and I don't think she would have 
gone unless beguiled by at least a promised marriage.” 

“You are right, if I may judge from my slight acquaint- 
ance with Miss Meade, whom to know was to respect,” he 
returned, gravely. “Look here, Randal,” he added, in a less 
formal manner, “I’m awfully sorry for you. You’re hard 
hit and fling out against everybody ; if you weren’t you 
wouldn t dare say what you are saying. You have got it into 
your head, Heaven knows how, that I am at the bottom of 
this — ” here these was a faint quiver in his voice, “ this poor 
girl’s disappearance. You are wrong. I will tell you, just to 
clear your mind, what I know of her. I met her at my 
father’s house, as the friend and companion of my sister and 
my cousin, Miss Lonsdale. Of course I admired and liked 
her — why, I believe our people thought it a pleasure to open 
a door for her — my father, my sister, and my cousin were 
enthusiastic about her beauty, her talents, and her sweetness, 
she was very tender and kind to my invalid sister. The 
Inglebys were fond of her. I met her at their house once or 
twice. I have heard Miss Meade allude to her engagement 
to you. Once, she read bits of one of your letters to my 
sister — about the Fall of Lucknow. My father, too, had 
spoken of the engagement, and of course we are personally 
interested in all that concerns one — well ! considering the — 
Ah ! the family — but I need not touch up that ” 

“You had better not,” thought Philip. 

“I am no saint,” continued Claude, rather superfluously, 
Philip considered, “but I could not insult — in fact, if I ever 
saw a true lady and one whose presence commanded re- 
spect, it was Miss Meade.” 

“ Fine words ! But this did not prevent you compromising 
her by walking alone in woods with her.” 

“And you believe all that village wives’ cackle? It is true 
that I have met Miss Meade walking in our own jflantations. 
As she was in the habit of walking alone, having no chaperon, 
it was not remarkable. I have met her walking alone with 
Ingleby, too ; I saw no harm in it.” 

“Plausible, but it won’t do. How do you account for the 
mysterious and complete disappearance?” 

He turned away with a pained look. 

“I have heard since,” he replied at last, “that she had 
much trouble for one so young. She was utterly alone, 
among people incapable of understanding her. She was 
high-spirited and sensitive. These miserable scandals had 


26 S 


Ilf THE HEART OF THE STORM.. 


come to her ears, she had been cruelly and unwarrantably in- 
sulted by coarse and stupid wretches unfit to — Whether her 
reason gave way, or whether it was an accident, we shall 
never know, but of this I am sure — you will see your sister 
no more on earth.” 

There was a repressed sob in his voice, and he again 
turned away, as if to struggle with invincible emotion, while 
Philip was silent from very rage and indignation at his hypo- 
crisy. 

“ That is a lie,” he cried at last ; “you cannot hide her long 
in a country like this. Unless, indeed, you have taken her 
abroad.” 

“ You are mad,” Claude returned with cold contempt. 

“ Not mad enough to believe all this,” Philip flashed out.. 
“ I know that you met her and had a secret understanding; 
with her from the first. That you took advantage of your' 
sister’s infirmity to make love to her. That you were once; 
surprised when your sister was asleep ” 

“ By my cousin ; could she expect Miss Meade to leave off 
reading aloud and wake my sister, and me to stump heavily 
away in search of another chaperon than the sleeping child ’* 

“ I know that you gave her jewels and money — I have 

evidence ” 

“ Then you know more than I do,” replied Claude, quietly. 
“ Besides you insult her b} T the assumption.” 

“ That you were alone with her the day before her disap- 
pearance, that you distressed her exceedingly, telling' her 
that it was too late to draw back, that you then arranged the 
details of her flight, her leaving the carrier within a mile of 
the town at Wellow Cross, and turning down toward the liver, 
where the handkerchief farce was gone through ” 

“If, as you say,” interrupted Claude, with a singular ex- 
pression in his dilating eyes, “ I met the lady alone in the 
storm, who but herself could have told you of the supposed 
conversation ? ” 

“That remains to be seen,” returned Philip, observing that 
it was Claude, and not himself, who supplied the circumstance 
of the storm. “ Sally Samson herself told me that she rowed 
Jessie with her luggage— by the way, even ladies don’t usually 
take luggage when committing suicide— to Lynmoutli, and 
saw her on board the boat which catches the three o’clock ex- 
press to Waterloo.” 

“Bid Miss Meade carry her luggage from the carrier’s 
cart to the ark?” he interrupted, with what Philip thought 
well-feigned interest. 


iiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


269 


“ That part was well managed. Sally’s nephew fetched it 
from the inn where it was left to be called for. You cannot 
deny that on the same day you pretended to be called un- 
expectedly to London, that you drove to Cleeve station in a 
dog-cart with only a groom, whom you left behind at the 
station. That you caught the boat at Lyn mouth — even the 
boat’s name is known, The Lord of the Isles — and that you 
travelled by the three o’clock express to Waterloo.” 

“ I drove to Cleeve and took the train ; I went in the Lord 
of the Isles and caught the three express to Waterloo, all 
that is true ; but I travelled alone. Ingleby went by the 
same express, the train was long, I did not see him, lie did 
not see me, and unless he is an unusually powerful liar, he 
did not see Miss Meade.” 

*‘You would, of course, have prevented that.” 

“ What was the price of Sally Samson’s valuable informa- 
tion ? My dear fellow, you must be uncommonly green if 
you can swallow all that an old woman will yarn you for half 
a sovereign — uncommonly green.” 

“ If you did not think me very green } t ou would not ex- 
jiect me to believe that you do not know where Jessie Meade 
is. You have done a very cruel and cowardly thing, Claude 
Medway. You have fatally injured one who had special 
claims on the consideration of every man with a spark of 
true manliness in him. One w T hose youth, innocence, orphan- 
hood and utter defencelessness — I will not say sex, because 
that, which ought to constitute a claim to men’s protection, 
is but too often regarded as a bait to their lawlessness — one 
whose peculiar position, her nearest friend and natural pro- 
tector being six thousand miles away — but I don’t speak of 
my own wrongs, although you knew of our relationship and 
of the impossibility of my attending to private duties at such 
a time, and although a soldier might be expected to feel that 
keenly — I tell you, I scorn to speak of my own wrong,” re- 
peated Philip, quivering with indignation — “ but her friend- 
less and defenceless condition, not to mention her engage- 
ment to me, to whom you have always affected a friendli- 
ness, I have never sought or wished — should have made her 
sacred. Give back my sister, Claude Medway, give me back 
the defenceless creature her dying father trusted to me, and 
so make tardy reparation for an irreparable wrong.” 

Claude’s face seemed cut in marble as he stood silent and 
almost breathless under Philip’s passionate appeal and more 
passionate accusing, only his tightly clasped hands and the 
occasional quiver of his closed lips betrayed that he felt any- 


270 


IX THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


thing, though in fact he felt the truth of every word burn 
like fire into his heart. 

• “ I have told you,” he said at last, in a dry, thin voice, “ that 
I do not know where the lady is ; I am not responsible for 
her. I can say no more.” 

“Then take the consequences,” cried Philip, throwing his 
card on the table. “ There is my address, if you should think 
better of your refusal upon reflection.” 

“You mean to go to law,” returned Claude, with the same 
marble face and icy voice. “ Think twice first. Do not has- 
tily drag her name in the dust ! The dead own nothing but 
name and memory, remember. Do not rob her of that one 
possession.” 

“Living or dead,” Philip, said sternly, “she had but her 
name, and of that she has already been most basely robbed.” 

The marble rigidity of the white face was touched into a 
faint quiver by this barbed truth. This may be the begin- 
ning of Hell merely to listen to the tale of the soul's own in- 
iquity and see something of the anguish consequent on it. 

“ You can do her no good,” he said at last, moistening his 
stiff, dry lips before he could speak ; “ a woman’s name and 
fame vanish before the breath of men’s lips.” 

“That is for your consideration,” Philip replied, coldly. 
“I shall refrain from legal proceedings the moment I see 
her.” 

So saying he left the room and the house, and Claude sat 
down at the table and gazed with a glassy stare straight be- 
fore him. 

“It is too much,” he murmured to himself, “that Jessie 
should suffer ! And that poor fellow ! She was all the world 
to him. He cared for her as I do for little Ethel. She was 
fond of him. Philip would consent to our marriage indeed. 
There is good stuff in this poor Philip. But he must not go 
to law, I must tell him all first.” 

He turned Sally Samson’s story over and over in his mind 
and thought it was probable, especially in connection with 
the luggage. The Plummers and Philip no doubt knew ex- 
actly of what that luggage consisted. There had never been 
the slightest doubt but that the luggage disappeared, and 
now there was a clue to its destination. It had at least been 
traced to the Lynmouth boat ; but how did Philip know of the 
meeting in the park shed? Had Jessie in her agitation un- 
guardedly told something of that on reaching home in the 
storm? Philip’s imagination might have furnished the de 
tails, the outline given. 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


271 


All of a sudden a thought struck like lightning through 
him. • Perhaps Sally Samson’s tale was true. 

He had so long mourned her as dead and reproached him- 
self as her virtual murderer, that the alternative was too 
acute ; it made him dizzy and faint, the room swam. When 
the first shock passed off, he tried to map the supposition out 
in his mind and consider what it might mean. Jessie alone 
in London ! Surely that would be worse than death. And 
yet there was a ray of hope in it. 


CHAPTER IX. 


FANNY. 

The desire of his eyes had been snatched from him, and the 
joy of his youth and the hope of his age quenched. The 
heavens were black above him, and the earth below bleak and 
barren, the wealth that would have made his wedded happi- 
ness possible was useless now ; all his possessions were but 
dust that is brushed away by a passing wind. His life lay 
blasted behind him and all his future stretched in blank 
desolation before him. So Claude Medway mourned in the 
bitterness of a bereaval still fresh and acute. 

It was his own doing ; he could not complain of the stern- 
ness of heavenly decrees or accuse any blind Fate of cruelty ; 
with his own hand he had withered and destroyed a life dearer 
than his own, and murdered his young happiness. It w T as as 
if, a consecrated chalice bearing celestial wine having been 
offered him, he had taken it for an ordinary tap-room tankard, 
and, before he could degrade it to common uses, it had been 
snatched from his sacrilegious hand, leaving him to burn with 
unquenchable thirst. 

On hearing of Jessie’s disappearance he had caused inquiries 
to be made through his father, to whom the handkerchief story 
had been communicated in confidence by Mr. Plummer, and 
had at last accepted the theory of death in the river, whether 
by accident or design — by design, he too surely feared. If 
Jessie’s passion and flight into the storm had touched his con- 
science and heart, the sharp stroke of bereaval had done more. 
A sorrow at once so irretrievable and so entwined with all the 
finest fibres of human nature, touches the spiritual part of man 
into keenly thrilling and active life ; it refines, softens, puri- 
fies like nothing else. 

What he had seen in Jessie’s face outlined upon the lurid 
sky, had swept away the intricate mazes of sophistry with which 
he had sought to deceive her and himself. All lay then in its 
naked hideousness before him ; he saw himself the unmanly 
persecutor of an innocent, high-minded girl, whose youth and 
defencelessness specially appealed to his chivalry. He saw 
the true nature of the unequal duel, in which he had used 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


273 


weapons so deadly and so unfair against one whose only armor 
was innocence, an armor so easily pierced unless braced by 
strength of character and principle ; and knew himself utterly 
defeated. 

“Woe to the weak. Let women take care of themselves,” 
was his axiom in April, but not now. He knew that Jessie 
had shown heroism beyond that of the deadly, deathless ride 
at Balaclava, which had so deeply impressed her imagination 
and so strongly kindled her enthusiasm. He remembered his 
own proud consciousness, while he rode down that awful 
valley in the tempest of death, that the noblest chord in his 
nature was vibrating at last ; his not ignoble self-reverence — 
springing from the thought that he and his comrades could 
die for a word’s sake. 

Sometimes he had thought that it would be possible to live 
up to the Balaclava level ; when Jessie left him that day he was 
sure of it. What had pierced his conscience most deeply was 
the brutality of his assertion that her reputation was already 
gone. Love and grief now showed him after Jessie’s flight 
what terrible meaning the inexperienced girl, so ignorant of 
the world’s evil, so sensitive to feelings of honor, might attach 
to these cruel words. In one so sensitive they might work 
despair, and despair in one so young and friendless, of mental 
poise so nice, turns to madness — and then — He saw it all ; 
the rush of agony during the lonely field walk, the sudden loss 
of mental balance in the fever of suffering, the temptation of 
the swift flowing river, where the tide was coming up and the 
channel was deep. A plunge in the green water, a loss of 
sunshine reflected from the golden hair above, a total loss of 
sunshine to the blue eyes darkened below ; then silence ; the 
broken ripple circling quietly back to its even flow, and the 
robin piping his autumn song in the oak-grove on the bank. 

Or it might have been an accident, a slip of the light foot on 
the timber’s green and slippery edge, as she stood to watch 
the tide running up. But it was most improbable that she 
would have walked to the edge of the timber bank ; there was 
no motive for doing so. To know that it was an accident 
seemed the only thing that could ever bring him peace of 
mind now. 

Philip had left him for more than an hour, the interrupted 
breakfast lay untouched on the table, when he roused himself 
from that unending circle of agonizing thought which some- 
times oversets the strongest minds, rose, took a turn in the 
room and looked out on the sunny park, whence the white 
rime was now melted. Then his eyes fell on some daily 
18 


274 IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 

papers, lie unfolded one, and was about to try and divert the 
current of gloomy thought when his attention was caught by 
a once familiar but long-forgotten name — Fanny Wordnutt, 
aged twenty-six. 

What is the good of reading those brief, pitiful paragraphs 
that daily appear under the heading of inquests on our cosey 
breakfast tables ? Sensible people who value their cheerful- 
ness, pass on to the record of gayer or larger doings, of Par- 
liamentary squabbles at home and political intrigues across 
the Channel, of theatres and concerts, of Lord and Lady 
Roseleaf’s exit from town and the arrival of the Duke of 
Bumkum at Flummery Castle, of the progress of Lord Chic- 
ory’s gout and the successful courtship of Miss Angela Billing 
by the Hon. Squander Cashless. But the name of this poor 
Fanny, whose brief life had contained no such pleasant doings 
as befall the rich and great, together with the name of a cer- 
tain cavalry depot, ri vetted his attention and caused the hair 
to rise upon his flesh as he read the every-day tale of misery. 

Poor Fanny, only twenty-six and too truly described as un- 
fortunate, had sought the piteous refuge of the river from a 
world in which she was not allowed the chance of walking 
uprightly, having once gone wrong. But first she had written 
a letter, explaining why. 

“Dear Mother,” the letter ran, “I could not bear it no 
more, thinking it better for all I should go. Please forgive 
me that have been a trouble and will trouble no one no more. 
It was trouble did it. After that young officer went I had no 
heart for nothing ; I couldn’t look up to myself. There was no 
hope. I first took a glass to forget. I was forced to bad 
company, others gave me the go by. It was only in drink I 
could forget, and you was forced to turn me away. Dear 
Mother, there was no honest work, and me afraid to die. But 
hell can’t be much worse than this. When you get this you 
won’t have a child to bring you disgrace. Please give my 
love to all that was ever kind to your poor wicked Fanny. 
God forgive him.” 

Wicked indeed was this frail, despairing Fanny, all sound 
moralists will justly say. Had she been made of sterner stuff, 
with a heart less trustful and loving, with a keener eye for 
her own interests, this poor little tragedy had never been 
enacted. Or with firmer faith and a feeling of Heaven’s infin- 
ite pity, she might have faced man’s scorn and not died of it. 
With all the springs of earthly joy dried for her, she might 
have sat contrite in the dust, doing good works ail the days of 
her life, a life which at eighteen seems an eternity of misery 


IH THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


275 


to the heart-stricken. But all girls of eighteen are not saints 
or ascetics ; young blood is warm, the youth hungry for hap- 
piness. 

Perhaps Claude Medway was not a sound moralist, for it 
seemed to him that the young officer wdio “ went ” was the 
most to blame in the matter, as he perused this poor sinner’s 
apology for her life, with a throbbing brain and heart. It 
was nearly nine years ago since the hussar officers used to 
call Fanny “ the pretty Puritan,” and lounge away many idle 
hours in the confectioner’s shop where she served ices to 
these long-limbed loungers, pennyworths of sweets to little 
boys and girls, whose heads scarcely reached the counter, 
buns to pinched spinsters, and great plum cakes to severe mat- 
rons, all with the same engaging smile and cheerful alacrity. 
She used to sing in the church choir of Sundays and teach 
in the Sunday-school. And though she w r as inclined to be 
smart in dress, the greater part of her wage went to the 
family exchequer, and she was a comfort to her parents. 

Then on summer evenings, when the bells were ringing, 
she used to stroll through pleasant field-paths outside the 
town, and one of those hussars, a light-hearted cornet, think- 
ing no harm and at his wit’s end for some fresh diversion, 
joined in those healthful w r alks and the end was sorrow for 
one of them. 

Nothing could alter what had happened and cause Fanny’s 
miserable life to be unlived. That young cornet might re- 
pent, might have repented long since ; he might be admitted 
to the companionship of saints in everlasting bliss,' but even 
there surely he could not be happy remembering to what a 
fate he had sent Fanny. Claude Medway had not attained 
to that wide hope of everlasting mercy according to which 
the penitent’s Heaven may consist in being allowed to undo 
the ill wrought on earth. He could only feel the black, blank 
misery of having driven a fellow-creature to a despair which 
led to worse than death, to one depth of degradation after 
another until “ Hell cannot be much worse than this.” 

To all lighted-hearted triflers, one day in some world, as to 
Claude Medway in this, a voice of thunder will surely say, 
“ Thy brother’s or thy sister’s blood crieth from the ground.” 

He could see the pretty Puritan, with rose-red mouth and 
clear guileless eyes, serving the sweets and singing in the 
choir, hear her joyous laugh and innocent prattle as she walked 
in the fields, a sweet picture. And he could see a haggard, 
wild-eyed woman, stupefied by degradation, a source of 
wide-spreading moral poison, mad with drink and misery, fly- 


276 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


ing from self and memory to the spectre-haunted silence of 
death — a ghastly spectacle. 

“ How atone, Great God, for this which man has done ? 

And for the body and soul which by 
Man’s pitiless doom must now comply 
With life-long hell. What lullaby 
Of sweet forgetful second birth 
Remains ? All dark ” 

Then before his imagination there rose up that great and 
terrible army of whom she was but a feeble unit, that army 
whose headquarters are capital cities, who infest the streets 
of every town, and prey upon the vitals of society — an army 
in which no one ever grows old, or, having once entered, is 
ever young. Why, he asked, does that ghastly host exist? 
Who maintains it ? And his conscience replied. Whence is 
it recruited ? And conscience again told him, mainly by 
such as Fanny, from the ranks of youth, innocence, helpless- 
ness. His heart sickened at this mass of human misery and 
degradation. He knew something of the impressment prac- 
tised for this awful service ; of the traps and pitfalls laid for 
the unsuspecting and ignorant, the foreigner, the friendless ; 
traps from which the purest virtue and firmest principle was 
not safe, traps and decoys by which such as Jessie are easily 
taken. Such as Jessie ! — 

“His daughter with his mother’s eyes.” 

Until Jessie had taught him a new reverence for women, he 
had not felt the depth of this degradation. 

What might actually be Jessie’s fate now, if, as Philip sup- 
posed, she was alone and homeless in London ? He would 
have given his life many times over to know that she was in- 
deed safe in the river Lynn, even if driven there by despair 
of his causing. 

Such thoughts dry up the very fountains of youth and 
scorch the brain into sereness ; he dared not harbor them ; 

‘ ‘ They make a goblin of the sun ; ” 

but left the house, seeking by violent exercise to get rid of 
them for a time. 

Then he decided on seeing Sally Samson and testing the 
story she had told Philip. But he must not do this openly 
now. 

In the meantime he and Philip were like duellists, each 
watching and waiting for the other to approach. Claude 
thought that the threatened legal proceedings must fail for 
want of money. Philip consulted lawyers with the result of 


iy THE HEART OF T1IE STORM. 


277 


getting liis brain completely bewildered by legal subtleties 
and liair-splittings. II he had to pay costs (which he consid- 
ered improbable ) he decided to sell his commission and real- 
ize his little fortune. It was a combat d, oulrance. 

When he left Claude Medway he was more firmly convinced 
than ever that he had the key to this distressing mystery. 
Claude’s extreme forbearance seemed to bear witness against 
him ; his letting him call him a liar and otherwise insult him, 
seemed to bear witness against him. The “ mean hound,” he 
called him in his indignation. 

M alking moodily along that day after an interview with a 
lawyer to -whom he had been recommended, he met a melan- 
choly procession of sandwich men trailing aimlessly along 
with pinched faces and' haggard looks, and in one of these 
ragged creatures he recognized a discharged soldier and old 
comrade with whom he had served in the Crimea. Hailing 
this unlucky fellow, he gave him a shilling and his address, 
and bade him come and talk over old times. Then, finding 
him open to a better employment, and knowing that his wits 
were keen and that he could keep sober for some time for a 
purpose, he engaged him, nominally as his servant, and really 
to help him watch Claude Medway’s movements. 

About a week after their encounter, Claude Medway went to 
Cleeve, dogged by Philip’s spy. 

On the following afternoon, about the gray dusk of a gray 
day, Philip was walking in Hyde Park, when the sound of his 
own name, issuing from the gloom beneath some trees near, 
reached his ear. 

“Then I tell Philip Randal,” a man’s voice said in harsh, 
threatening tones. 

“ Nonsense,” Claude Medway’s voice replied. “ Luckily he 
is out of your reach.” * 

“ He is in England. He was at Marwell a fortnight ago. 
I can easily lay hands on him if I try.” 

“It will be the worse for you if you do, because in that 
case you will never get one farthing more from me or my 
father, and he has but his pay for you to prey upon.” 

“ Give me fifty down and I’ll be quiet for the sake of the 
family, for the fine old Medway name,” said the other, sneer- 
in gly. And Philip lost the reply, for they were moving on, 
and their footsteps now fell upon gravel and now they were in 
the open road, so that he could not be near them without 
himself being seen. 

Some further altercation followed, and then Claude put 
something into the hand of the man — who proved to be the 


278 


IS THE HEART OF TIIF STORM. 


shabby fellow Philip had seen waiting in the hall, and shook 
himself free of him. 

Philip followed the shabby man into an omnibus, in which 
he contrived to sit opposite him with his own face in shadow, 
so that he could watch him in the dim light of the quaking 
oil lamp as they clattered over the pavement. The man 
dozed a little, with his chin on his breast and his hands rest- 
ing clasped tightly on the stick he held between his knees. 
Presently he roused himself with a low sound, half moan, 
half grunt, looked uneasily round like some startled wild 
animal, and Philip saw that his eyes glittered feverishly from 
deep-sunken sockets, and that his worn and wasted face was 
of a peculiar yellowish hue. Having glanced round at the 
passengers, the haunted look left him, and he took from his 
pocket some kind of sweetmeat or drug from which he cut 
pieces and ate and dozed again. This was repeated several 
times, and each time his hand became less tremulous, his 
dozing less heavy, and his eyes less keen. He got out in 
Oxford Street, followed at a distance by Philip, and ate some 
more of the sweetmeat. Then he sauntered slowly along, 
often stopping to look vacantly for some minutes at the mov- 
ing stream of vehicles and passengers passing and repassing, 
jostling and hurrying in the gas-light. The haunted look 
recurred no more now, the eyes were quiet and hazy, the 
man’s air was that of a half-conscious dreamer, there was a 
pleasant languor in his movements. 

He turned the first corner he reached in the same aimless, 
sauntering way, with many a pause, as if in reverie ; though 
surely, Philip thought, Oxford and the adjoining streets were 
strange places to dream in. But the opium-eater saw instead 
of London streets by gaslight, a series of magnificent page- 
ants streaming by in ever-changing brilliance, in weird yet 
tranquil splendor. He saw the Greek charioteer with wind- 
blown hair and tense muscles, standing with a backward 
poise in his light car, and deftly guiding his flying coursers, 
anon giving a swift glance behind to see how far his rivals 
had gained on him in one louder thunder of their course. 
Now it was a Roman triumph glittering with golden spoil, 
now the advancing surge of victorious battle, now a succession 
of dancing nymphs and satyrs, a whirl of flying Naiads, now 
a fairy pageant, a radiant masque, a tournament, a battle of 
Titans, a rout of Centaurs and Lapithse, a procession of lovely, 
laughing lute players, heaven knows what of fantastic spec- 
tacles, glowing colors, and beautiful forms developed on the 
foundation of a moving London crowd. 


IN THE TIE ART OF THE STORM. 279 


Street after street was passed in this manner ; Philip began 
to wonder if the battered, shabby object of his chase were a 
man or demon, if perchance he had lighted on the Wander- 
ing Jew, or some spirit compelled to revisit his old haunts. 
The thin, bearded figure stopped at last after a couple of 
hours’ wandering before a house in a moderately quiet street, 
rang the bell and went in without parley when the door 
opened. 

Philip soon followed, observed the number on the fan-light, 
and rang the bell himself. 

“Is Mr. Johnson at home?” he asked the maid who an- 
swered the door. 

“ Some mistake. No Mr. Johnson here,” she replied. 

“ No ? But surely that was Mr. Johnson who went in a 
minute ago? An elderly man, thin and sickly-looking ? ” 

“ Why, you mean one of the lodgers, Mr. Ashwin. I just 
let him in.” 

“ I am afraid I have made a mistake, I could have sworn it 
was Mr. Johnson,” he returned, carefully describing him 
again and slipping a piece of silver in her hand. “ The num- 
ber I thought was 55, and the landlady, a Mrs. — well, I for- 
get her name.” 

“This is Mrs. Smithson’s, sir, and she’s only three sets, 
Mr. Ashwin, the first-floor front, Mr. Jenkins, first-floor back, 
and Mr. Cramer, second-floor, back. No Mr. Johnson. 
'Twas the first-floor front just stepped in.” 

“ A commercial traveller ? ” 

“ No ; he lives independent. Sleeps all day, and is out all 
night sometimes. Drinky. Has horrors.” 

That was all Philip could learn of this gentleman, and he 
turned away content with his information for the present. 


CHAPTER X. 


PHILIP IS SURPRISED. 

It was plainly lost labor to seek information of a man in an 
opium-trance, and as Philip drove back to his own quarters 
near Hyde Park, another plan occurred to him, he changed 
his destination and had himself set down at Claude Medway’s 
house. 

Finding him at home, he sent in his card with the word 
“ urgent,” pencilled on it, and was at once admitted, late as it 
was. 

He was shown into a library, lighted faintly with shaded 
lamps, and soon joined by Claude Medway. 

“I hope, Randal,” the latter said, “ that you have thought 
better of this intended lawsuit.” 

“I have thought that it will not be necessary,” he replied. 
“ You were with a man named Ashwin, this evening,” he ad- 
ded. Claude moved away from the lamp he had turned up 
on entering. 

“ Is Mr. Ashwin a friend of yours ? ” he asked. 

“ I have no doubt he would become one for a considera- 
tion. I heard my name this evening in the park by accident. 
I heard that I was to be told all unless a good, round sum 
was forthcoming on the instant. I followed your agreeable 
friend and obtained his name, address, and occupation. He 
was not in a state for examination when I left him. He will 
keep. In the mean time, you may as well tell me all your- 
self.” 

“ What do you suppose Ashwin threatened to tell you ? ” 
Claude asked. 

“ What you have done with my sister.” 

“ You are mistaken. This man has never so much as heard 
her name,” he replied. 

“ He may know her by another name.” 

“ In that case, how would he know your name in connec- 
tion with her ? Randal, I swear to you on my honor, that I 
no more know where Jessie Meade is at this moment than you 


iiY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


281 


do. And I warn you against this man, Ashwin. If you make 
yourself known to him, you will repent it all your life.” 

“ That is my concern. I can look after myself and those 
who depend upon me. It is very plain that you don’t wish 
me to know him, since you bought his silence a few hours 
since and told him that he would repent finding me out to 
the last day of his life. I have had enough of this, Medway, 
I am sick of playing the spy. You have just been to Cleeve, 
where your movements have been watched and will be re- 
ported to me. I overheard your interview with this man on 
your return. What have you done with her ? It may as well 
come out now as in court.” 

“I have just sworn to you upon my honor ” 

“ Your honor,” said Philip, savagely. 

Claude sprung toward him and then suddenly drew back. 
“ Fool ! ” he cried, “ let it be on your own head ! Ashwin is 
your father ! ” 

“That — that — drunken beast — my — father ” stammered 

Philip. 

Claude forgot his anger in amazement. “ Good Heavens, 
Philip ! ” he cried, “is it possible that you don’t know who 
you are ? ” 

“I know nothing of my father,” Philip said, “except that 

he made my mother wretched. But It is no affair of yours ; 

I am here only on her business,” he returned, recovering 
himself. 

“ It is my affair ; we are cousins. If you had your birth- 
right, you would probably be in my place, the heir of the 
baronetcy and property. I must tell you all in common 
justice now, having sprung this on you.” 

So Philip had to hear from the man who had wronged him 
the story of his own shame. He was the son of Algernon 
Medway, the Mr. Algernon of the last generation, a name too 
notorious to be forgotten in this. Many a tale of this bad 
man had Philip heard at Mar well as a boy, not dreaming that 
he was hearing of his own father’s misdeeds. 

“Mr. Algernon,” was never mentioned at the Court, his 
name was an offence to his family and only whispered about 
with caution. Philip had vaguely supposed him to be dead, 
and yet he had some dim remembrance of sentence passed 
upon him in a criminal court. 

Now he learned why Sir Arthur chancing to see him a boy 
at the grammar school on a prize-giving day, and struck by 
his likeness to the Medways, and by the coincidence of his 
age with that of his brother’s son, concealed by his mother, 


282 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


wished, after identifying him by the help of Matthew Meade, 
till then ignorant himself of his origin, to adopt him. Fur- 
ther, why Sir Arthur had always manifested some interest 
in his welfare, and kept himself informed of his progress at 
school, and afterward still further that he was the giver of the 
mysterious little fortune which came to him after the Crimea. 
Matthew’s pathetic desire to be all in all to Philip and “make 
a gentleman of him ” had been respected by Sir Arthur, who 
was ever ready to give material aid toward that end in case 
Matthew should fail. But some of this, together with his 
uncle’s intention of buying him a commission after a little 
wholesome discipline in the ranks, he heard later — there was 
not time to listen to all that night. 

Arthur and Algernon Medway were twins whose identity 
had been confused by careless nurses in their infancy. The 
children were then weighed and the heaviest henceforth dis- 
tinguished as Arthur, the heir, but their father, Sir Claude, 
was always troubled by the fear that Algernon might have 
been wronged by the decision, and made up for the possible 
injustice by thoroughly spoiling Algernon, whom he made 
heir of the unentailed Marwell property. Both twins had 
commissions in the army, but Algernon’s was in the Guards, 
his allowance was larger than Arthur’s, he was always in debt, 
his extravagances drained the family purse and encumbered 
the estates, yet whatever he did was right in his father’s eyes; 
the steady Arthur, in his less expensive and fashionable regi- 
ment, being considered as lacking in spirit and dash. But at 
last the fast and fashionable guardsman committed a serious 
error ; he secretly married pretty Mary Ashwin, an infantry 
officer’s daughter, a penniless orphan whom he had known as 
governess of a friend’s children. 

When this came to light, Sir Claude was very angry, there 
was a period of storm and indignation, and stopping of sup- 
plies, highly inconvenient to a gentleman in Mr. Algernon 
Medway’s position. The offence was at last condoned, and 
Mrs. Algernon Medway and her baby son were received by 
Lady Medway and young Lady Gertrude, Arthur’s wife, with 
such cordiality as those ladies could muster for the occasion, 
which perhaps was not sufficient to make it very pleasant for 
poor Mary Medway to live among them, a dowerless intruder 
with nothing but her beauty and goodness to recommend her. 

Spon after this, the baby son being about a year old, Al- 
gernon was tried and convicted of a crime that * inspired his 
young wife with especial horror, for which he was trans- 
ported for a long period. 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


283 


Sir Claude, whose doting fondness quickly turned to ex- 
travagant hatred, then left all his property, with the exception 
of daughters’ portions and such necessary provisions, to 
Arthur ; he continued, however, to give a small allowance, de- 
pendent on his pleasure, to Algernon’s unfortunate young wife. 

For some years after this scandal, Arthur Medway lived 
with his wife and young children chiefly on the continent, 
while Sir Claude shut himself up in Mar well Court, saw no one, 
* and gradually declined in health till he died, when Philip 
must have been about five years old, and Mary Medway two 
years in her unknown grave. As no one was permitted to 
mention Algernon, his wife or child, in the old baronet’s pres- 
ence, it was not until after his death, in winding up his affairs, 
that Sir Arthur discovered that Mrs. Algernon had ceased for 
some years to claim her allowance. The lawyers through 
whom the pittance was paid had had instructions from Sir 
Claude to make no inquiries for her if she chose to slip out 
of sight, as she did. Thus the new head of the family had 
no clew of her whereabouts, and searched in vain for some 
traces of her, until he chanced, four years after Sir Claude’s 
death, to find Philip at his very gates. Then, being attracted 
by the boy’s likeness to the Medways, and by some rumor of 
his unknown origin, he made inquiries of Matthew Meade, 
which, being followed up by both, left no reasonable doubt in 
the minds of either that Philip w r as the son of Algernon Med- 
way. Mary Medway’s handwriting alone, without the testi- 
mony of the entries in her diary, would have revealed her to 
Sir Arthur. 

“ We thought that you were told of your name and origin 
on coming of age,” Claude said in conclusion. “ Of course 
the thing made a great talk at the time. It is forgotten now, 
but a little would soon stir the old scandal. Men of our gen- 
eration know nothing, but our fathers’ contemporaries would 
remember.” 

The trial of Algernon Medway had brought to light many 
base circumstances in his life ; the crime of w r hich he was con- 
victed, appropriation of regimental moneys, was, no doubt, 
but the repetition of a previous theft, for which the officer re- 
sponsible for the money had been broken, though not prose- 
ecuted ; he had vanished with his despair. This last theft had 
been accompanied by a well-planned attempt to fasten the 
robbery on Algernon’s wife’s brother, obnoxious to him from 
being a private, and who shot himself in consequence of what 
he endured while under suspicion. 

“ You need fear nothing from me,” Philip replied, with 


284 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


some scorn, and then, after a pause, he asked of what crime 
his father had been convicted. Claude replied in a word that 
made his ears tingle. He w T as looking straight before him 
with a strained gaze that saw nothing visible, but pictured 
Ada Maynard’s face as when he saw her last beneath the 
moonlight sprinkled orange-trees, and saw a deep, black gulf 
yawning between them. He had kept loyal to the farewell 
then spoken, and never allowed his fancy to stray back to 
those renounced hopes, and yet he had never felt the parting 
in its full pain till now. A thousand other thoughts surged 
into his niind, his eyes darkened, his face grew sharp with 
pain, and he grasped the back of a chair, as if by mechanical 
action he could control the tumult within. Claude looked 
with a grave compunction at the silent agony dimly shadowed 
in the face before him. 

“ Better forgotten. Better you had never known,” he said, 
at last. “ He hps had the grace to take another name.” 

“I ought to have known from the first,” Philip replied at 
last. “ And he wanted me.” 

“ Yes,” replied Claude, “ that he might squeeze every penny 
out of you and then fling you aside, ruined. His allowance is 
more than your wdiole income. He spends his time betw een 
opium-dreaming and gambling. That man w T ould rob a child. 
He has no heart ; he is scarcely human. Don’t fall into his 
clutches ; he w T ill never leave you till he has ruined you. 
Don’t be misled by any weak sentiment in that direction.” 

“ My affairs,” replied Philip, “ are my own.” 

Then upon further inquiry he learned that Algernon Med- 
way’s term of transportation had expired some years since. 
Land had been assigned him, of which he had made nothing. 
His brother sent him sums of money until his patience was 
exhausted, then he gave him a settled allowance, with the in- 
timation that no more lump sums would be forthcoming. 

Thereupon, the black sheep appeared one day, an unrecog- 
nizable wreck, at Marwell Court. He had seen Philip’s name 
in newspapers and the Army List, and learnt all that was 
known of his origin from Cleeve people, drawing his own con- 
clusions as to the identity of this Philip Randal with the son 
he had named. Then, finding that the Medways were 
anxious to keep him apart from Philip, he demanded and re- 
ceived blackmail, especially from Claude, whose guilty con- 
science made him tender of Philip’s welfare. 

Such was the story Philip heard, to his own most bitter 
chagrin, such was the father he found in searching for his 
lost sister. But he did not leave the house without pressing 


JiV THE HEART OF THE' STORM. 


285 


on his inquiries for Jessie, insisting upon knowing the object 
of Claude’s visit to the ark of that day. 

“I went,” Claude replied, “to see if Sally Samson’s story 
was true. I believe that it is true. You see, Randal, I should 
not go to this old woman if I knew where to find Jessie.” 

“Heaven knows.” 

“ You still refuse to believe me. That is not the way to 
find her. If we act together with this clue we may find Jes- 
sie. If you go to law, you will only smirch her name.” 

Philip looked at him searchingly, and yet with some hesita- 
tion. “ You did not tell the truth about your relations with 
her,” he said, at last. 

“I did not tell the whole truth. While I thought her dead 
— I thought it better — can’t you understand ? ” 

Philip thought he could understand, and his heart sank. 

“ You did not love Jessie and she did not love you. I loved 
her. I lost her. I would give my life to find her. When 
she is found she must be my wife.” 

“ Do you solemnly swear that ? ” Philip asked. 

“I do most solemnly swear it.” 

“ You should have sworn that before — before all this mis- 
ery of your making — before it was too late.” 

“ I think,” he said, slowly, “ that you should know all that 
ever passed between your sister and myself.” 

So Philip thought, and he listened wfith a sort of savage 
forbearance to the story of this long courtship and its climax 
in the storm, when Jessie vanished. Restraining his indig- 
nation, he thought it all over and considered the possibility 
of her going to London without money. 

“ She had sold some pictures,” Claude explained. 

“Sold pictures !” echoed Philip ; “ but what would a few 
shillings be ? ” 

“ That,” said Claude, pointing to a framed water-color of 
Harwell Court on the wall, “ fetched ten guineas.” 

He examined it in silent wonder and his eyes grew moist. 
“ Poor Jessie,” he murmured, turning away, “ poor child ! ” 
And something of the truth began to dawn upon him. Jessie 
alone in cruel, wicked London ; young, beautiful, and friend- 
less as she was, for three weary winter months hoping to 
live by selling drawings. What could the upshot of this be ? 

The next day Philip burst into the house in great excite- 
ment. 

“ She did go to London,” he cried, “ and whatever harm 
comes to her is on your head.” 

“ You have seen her ? ” faltered Claude, with white lips, 


286 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ I have two letters ; they have been to India and followed 
me home. One before her flight and one dated October, 
with no address, bearing the mark of the General Post-office. 
She speaks of flying from a temptation that she does not 
name. Of having been compromised by scandalous talk. 
Of hiding from her friends in consequence.” 

“ She hides from you ? ” Claude asked, much agitated by 
the sight of Jessie’s delicate hand-writing on the travel- 
stained envelope. “ I quite understand that she would hide 
from that coarse-tongued shrew of a cousin, but why from 
you ? ” 

“ Heaven knows,” Kandal returned, sadly ; “ she is such a 
child at heart, so ignorant of life. She thinks herself dis- 
graced — by mere talk.” 

“ What have I done ? ” cried Claude. “ Oh ! Jessie, poor 
Jessie, what have I done ? ” 

Philip had no comfort for him ; he read out such portions 
of Jessie’s last letter as he thought it well for Claude to 
hear, with merciless emphasis on words that made him wince. 
In the meantime he racked his brain, as he had been doing 
all that night, in the effort to recall Jessie’s spring and -sum- 
mer letters, thinking how much misery might have been 
spared if he had given more earnest heed to them at the time 
and considered her more in the light of a reasonable and rea- 
soning being. For the Jessie painted by Claude Medway, 
Mr. Ingleby, and Sir Arthur, and shadowed forth by her last 
letter, was a revelation to him. 

He had but just received the letter Jessie last wrote before 
her disappearance. It had missed a mail and gone to an old 
Indian address, whence it had travelled by a circuitous route 
to Myserabad, and thence back to England in company with 
her London letter. In this she told him that it must be clear 
to him afe it was to her that they did not love each other in a 
way to rdake marriage desirable ; that her father, could he 
know all the circumstances, would be the last person to urge 
their marriage ; that he had not perhaps well considered it, 
until suddenly called upon to leave her alone in the world. 
Experience had taught her, as it w T ould one day teach him, 
how different love was from the fraternal feeling that had 
bound them together, and would bind them, she knew, all 
their lives. 

The London letter assured him of her well being, and bid 
him set his heart at rest concerning her. She would write from 
time to time and hear of him in the papers. She had acted 
foolishly ; not knowing what construction would be put upon 


nf THE HEART OF THE ' STORM. 


287 


her actions. She had acted wrongly in keeping things, 
which they ought to have known, from her guardians, and 
now God had punished her by taking away her good name. 
“Dear Philip,” she said, “do not think harshly of your little 
Jessie. I tried to do right, but it was so hard. My head was 
confused, wrong sometimes seemed right, and right wrong. 
And no one told me it was wrong to see friends alone out of 
doors. Some day, perhaps, you will be able to forget that I 
was foolish once and made people talk cruelly when young 
and quite alone. You said so little about the young lady who 
escaped to Lucknow with you, that I think you must care for 
her. Now you are free. I should always have been a dead 
weight on you ” 

“ We will go to Scotland Yard. You must get Cheese- 
man to act with you,” Claude said, at last ; “ we may trace 
her by her drawings. She was acquainted with one well- 
known artist. She will have been to him.” 

He still had some hope of finding her but his heart sank 
when he thought of her helpless inexperience. 


4 


CHAPTER XL 


THE PICTUKE. 

Before many days Philip found himself on his way to the 
house whither he had tracked the opium eater. After a 
fruitless errand there he learnt from the friendly maid when 
Mr. Ash win was likely to be visible, and, timing his next 
visit accordingly, appeared soon after noon one day. 

This visit was not a thing likely to make Ada Maynard 
regret, he thought, with a thrill of deep and pure emotion. 
He could almost hear her bidding him go. And yet he was 
farther from her than ever. 

Mr. Ash win was at home, but could not receive visitors ; 
yet he sent in his card, thinking he would not be denied, and 
was shown in a first floor room looking on the street. 

“He must at least be human,” he thought, when the door 
opened and revealed the stooping figure, wrapped loosely in a 
dressing-gown, in an armchair between a blazing fire and a 
breakfast table, on which stood a decanter half full of a dark 
liquid that was not wine. He recalled old, half-forgotten 
stories heard in boyhood of “Mr. Algernon.” There was 
one story of a horse which he had punished in so shocking a 
manner that it was necessary to shoot it. 

A young groom, a slim, small fellow, hearing the horse 
scream, had throwm himself upon the big guardsman and 
given him such a pounding as he had never before enjoyed, 
getting well punished himself in return. Mr. Algernon had 
to keep his bed for a day or two ; the servant w r as dismissed 
by Sir Claude, and handsomely rewarded by Mr. Medway, 
who never lost sight of him, and whose coachman he was 
at this present day. Philip had often envied that young 
groom the opportunity of punishing such a scoundrel. 
“ Yet he must be human,” he thought, looking earnestly 
at the leaden-eyed, broken creature with the full moist 
loose lips, the furtive glance, the pallid unwholesome face, 
and the traces of former long-ruined comeliness. He was 
certainly like Sir Arthur, and yet Sir Arthur was a vigorous 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


289 


man, with fine presence and handsome, refined face. Could 
these be twin brothers ? Could this stooping skeleton with 
the cadaverous face and evil eye be his father ? 

“ Philip Randal, eh ? ” the man asked, not rising nor offer- 
ing his hand. “ To what am I indebted for the honor of this 
visit ? ” he added, sarcastically. 

“ Sir,” he replied, “ you are my father.” 

“Am I?” he returned, with an unpleasant jest. “Well, 
what then? There’s nothing to be got out of me.” 

“ I heard,” Philip continued, “ that you wished to find my 
address. I have brought it.” 

“So I did. But only to put the screw on those mean 
hounds, Arthur and Claude. You’ve done me out of a certain 
income, you young donkey,” he grumbled, motioning him to 
a seat. “ So you’ve been through the ranks, you young dog, 
and climbed up to the proud eminence of captain in a line 
regiment, all of your own bat, eh ? Gad, it makes me sick 
to think of it ; a self-made man is the beastliest thing on earth. 
To be sure, you ought to “have done better with the Crimea 
and the Mutiny,” he continued, with a vacuous air, as he 
reached with a shaking hand after the decanter and poured 
out some of its contents, which he drank off. “ Half that, my 
young cockerel,” he added, setting the glass down empty, 
“ would stop your crowing for ever ; the whole of it would set- 
tle five dragoons. Well, what do you want here ? ” he growled, 
in a hoarse, savage voice, as he suddenly turned and bent his 
now glittering eyes upon his visitor’s face. 

Philip had never known what it is to loathe a man until he 
set eyes on this battered hulk, yet he kept saying to himself, 
as he wondered what sort of a creature he might himself have 
become with this cruel and dissolute being’s tutelage in place 
of Matthew Meade’s, he must, at least, be human ; besides he 
knew that his gentle young mother had once loved him. And 
when he thought of the bright promise of the man’s youth, his 
fall and degradation, the long misery his life had been with no 
earthly hope before him, a spasm of awed pity caught his 
heart. 

. “I came,” he replied, with this great pity in his face, “ to 
see you.” 

“ You’ll get nothing out of me,” his amiable parent growled, 
his evil eyes shrinking before his son’s. “ That beast, Arthur, 
doles me out two or three pitiful hundreds a year, and I’ve 
not a penny more, not a penny,” he whined, with maudlin 
tears. “And that young cub, Claude, with a commission in 
the Hussars, while my poor boy was left to a pauper’s charity, 
19 


290 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


and served in the ranks of a line regiment. And I am the 
real heir, I am Sir Arthur ; he is only Algernon. The cursed 
woman mixed us up in our cradles, and my old fool of a 
father couldn’t tell Dick from Harry. So he had us weighed, 
and because that beast, Arthur, was two ounces heavier, they 
swore he was me ; and there he is enjoying my title and pat- 
rimony. This is an unjust world, Philip. If all had their 
rights you would have been brought up as the heir to a bar- 
onetcy and fine estates, and that nasty Arthur would have 
been transported, and flogged, and put in irons, and eaten his 
heart out as a convict in that brutal country, till he dragged 
his old worn-out, battered carcass home to live upon the nig- 
gardly doles of a brute. I can’t last much longer,” he added, 
with a calculating air, “ and you ought to be Sir Philip by 
this day twelvemonth, at least.” 

“There is plenty of life in you yet,” Philip rejoined. “I 
shall be in England for some time longer, and I hope you will 
let me do anything I can for you in the meantime.” 

“ What can you do with your beggarly pay and the misera- 
ble dole these beasts let you have ? ” returned the delightful 
old gentleman, querulously. “I say, Philip,” he added, 
“ what an infernal fool you must be to mix yourself up with 
me ! Now, what in the devil’s name did you think you could 
get out of me ? ” 

“ Stillbrooke Mill,” exclaimed Philip, starting up and going 
toward a side-table, where a mounted water-color stood on a 
miniature easel. 

“ Ah, your old diggings ! Capital drawing. Picked it up 
in a print shop the other day. What the deuce is the matter 
with the boy ? ” he added, as Philip took up the water-color 
with a trembling hand and examined it closely, finding the 
monogram, J. M., and the date, May, 1858, in the corner. 

It was the mill as seen from the bridge, faithfully and lov- 
ingly painted with finish and detail. There was warm sun- 
shine, and light breezes stirred the plane-tree and the great 
willow ; there was the black wheel spurning the white spray ; 
the pigeons sunned themselves on the roof ; two silver swans 
sat placidly on the still water, and, what greatly touched 
him, a man leant over the lower half of the door, looking 
out as Matthew used to do. 

“ I would give my life to find the person who painted this,” 
he exclaimed, after a long and silent scrutiny of the picture. 

“ Say half a sovereign, you young idiot,” rejoined his ven- 
erable parent ; “the thing is good in its way. There’s sun- 
shine in it. Where did I get it ? Gad, how* can I tell ? I 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


291 


had drunk this bottled happiness — no bliss like opium, boy — 
I was back in the days when — before— when I was young, 
and then in a window I saw the very spot where I first met 

poor Mary, the very spot and the sunshine ” His head 

sank forward, a haze gathered over his eyes, his brain steeped 
in opium fumes ; he maundered on about Mary Ash win, blue 
skies, sunshine, and freedom. “ Lilies in her hands and heart, 
roses on her lips. Sweet roses ! sweet Mary ! ” he muttered, 
dreamily. 

Philip roused him and insisted on his stirring his memory, 
and after some circumlocution and cross-examination, it came 
out that the shop was somewhere in the Strand, that it was 
a corner shop ; the tradesman’s name was not forthcoming*, 
but the particulars were quickly noted down by Philip. 

The old man sat half dazed by Philip’s impetuosity, gazing 
out into the street, his lower lip hanging and an imbecile ex- 
pression on his wasted face. “Can’t keep it out of Still- 
brooke Mill,” he muttered, “can’t keep it out — it blots — it 
blots Mary’s face.” 

“ What can’t you keep out ? ” his son asked. 

“ Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t let them tell yon, Philip ; don’t 
believe them if they do. I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,” he 
whimpered, piteously. 

“ Drink some coffee,” Philip said, pouring out a cup and 
handing him, “that laudanum was too strong. Drink it off 
quick.” 

He was easily persuaded, drank, and seemed after an effort 
to collect his bewildered wits. He regained his sneering air, 
gave Philip the water-color, and bade him go and trouble him 
no more. Philip put his card and address in a safe and con- 
spicuous place, and asked him if he should change his mind, 
or be ill or lonely, to send for him. He had wished him good- 
by, when the old gentleman called him back with a mysteri- 
ous and troubled look. “ For God’s sake, Philip,” he said, in 
a low and terrified voice, “take care how you go down- 
stairs, and when you do get to the bottom shut your eyes and 
run for your life. What do you think — the most horrible 
sight — there’s a dreadful, oh ! such a dreadful great washer- 
woman in that corner ! ” He trembled like a leaf as he spoke, 
his face became clammy, and his eyes glittered wildly. 

“ Oh, it’s all right,” Philip returned, readily, “ she shan’t do 
it any more. I’ll turn her out of the corner and drive her 
clean away.” 

“Will you, though?” he asked wistfully, and he seemed re- 
lieved and spoke rationally again. 


292 


IN TIIE HEART OF THE STORM. 


When Philip was gone he walked to and fro for some min- 
utes, knowing that the unusually heavy dose of laudanum 
would overpower him if he sat still. “Little Philip,” he mut- 
tered, “ poor Mary’s child, little Philip ! No, no, I won’t 
drag Mary’s boy down. No, no, poor Mary ! Her eyes and 
her look, her pretty sturdy boy.” 

Philip was right ; the wretched criminal was human ; there 
was one pure spot in his heart. Mary had given him the only 
real happiness in his wretched life, though he had broken her 
heart. And he had been proud of the boy in a rough way, 
liked to play with him, to toss him, and feel his fair limbs, to 
teach him to lisp bad words, and square his baby fists at his 
father. He was proud of him now. “Gad!” he said to 
himself, “ blood always tells. I’m not ashamed to own him. 
And that beast Claude gets his title and estates, the brute ! ” 

Philip soon reached the corner shop in the Strand, impa- 
tiently awaiting the print-seller’s leisure and examining the 
few drawings and paintings with eager interest. The print- 
seller had at first no recollection either of the picture or art- 
ist, but after some consideration and a little jogging of his 
memory by his assistant, he recognized the one and recalled 
the other. A tall, plainly dressed girl, with fair liair, evi- 
dently fresh from the country. She was pale and very anx- 
ious. And very pretty, the assistant added. It was a long 
time ago, months ago, when first she came. She had sold 
only this one picture, though she had offered several. She 
used to call often at first, and seemed disappointed to find her 
pictures unsold. She was vexed at getting only ten shil- 
lings for the mill, and then took her drawings away lest they 
should spoil by exposure ; but there was one left, Mr. Moore 
thought, and the assistant said it was still in the window ; 
this was true, and someone was even looking at it with des- 
pairing eyes. They had seen nothing of Miss Miller for some 
time, she had given her address, but it had no doubt long 
since gone to the waste paper basket. Ladies were always 
worrying them to show drawings in their shop window. That 
was all he could learn in answer to his close inquiries. 

He bought the remaining picture and left his name and 
address with the money, hoping that Jessie, if indeed it were 
she, would call again, and intending himself to call fre- 
quently on the chance of meeting her. Then he walked 
thoughtfully along the crowded pavement, feeling the vast - 
ness of the great town and the immensity of the hurrying, 
jostling tide of humanity pouring along in two contrary and 
intersecting currents, continuous, apparently aimless, and yet 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 293 

having a bewildering intensity of purpose. He stopped near 
a shop out of the way, and listened to the endless roar of the 
mighty life-torrent thundering in perpetual reverberations 
along the Strand. That black moving mass was made up of 
human beings ; hearts innumerable beat beneath the sombre 
clothing, and brains innumerable were throbbing and plan- 
ning, calculating and scheming, each a little world of its own, 
and having its own separate mainspring. What aches and 
joys, what heroisms and villainies, what petty miseries and 
grand despairs, what nobility and meanness might be surging 
by, unknown ! Yet all wore the same absorbed, preoccupied, 
unobservant look, each was apparently as unconscious of the 
others and as indifferent to them as is some blind natural 
force. The aspect of such a crowd is impressive, and one’s 
own insignificance and unregardedness in the face of it is 
chilling. Its fierce onrush seems motiveless, or moved only 
by the blind brutal struggle for life. And here, Philip thought 
with a bleeding heart, friendless, defenceless Jessie had wan- 
dered, striving to cope in her weakness with that mass of piti- 
less strength. She might even now be near. How easy it 
would be to disappear in such a throng. He listened to the 
incessant trot- trot of hoofs and rumble of wheels, he reached 
the National Gallery, with some vague notion that it would be 
a likely place of resort for Jessie. 

He leant on the balustrade beneath the portico and looked 
upon the finest site in Europe, with its broad open, sloping- 
space and numerous monuments, which if unlovely in them- 
selves, have at least a grandiose effect when grouped in the 
distance ; on its fountains and buildings, the long-vistaed 
tower-shadowed streets opening away from it, the play of 
light on the leaping fountains, the mysterious softening of all 
outlines in the faint pervading mist. How wide the world 
seemed there ! how stimulating yet bewildering the contin- 
uous thunder of human billows incessantly surging by the 
greatest city on earth. He thought of another great city in 
the far East, not dimmed by the mysterious haze which veils 
a London sky in the clearest weather, but glittering in fierce 
untempered sunlight, with gilded domes and shining min- 
arets rising among palaces and dark groves, in place of the 
gray and smoke-stained towers and the one dark and solemn 
dome brooding above the chimneys and brick and mortar 
waste of London. He remembered the infinitely fiercer rush 
of contending multitudes through the blood-stained streets, 
when Havelock’s men fought their way to the Residency be- 
tween loopholed houses lined with shooters, where every stone 


m 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


concealed an active enemy, and every avenue was thronged 
and every vantage point covered with them. He thought of 
the strange manner in which he had been snatched, appar- 
ently dead, from the very centre of that awful storm, and 
guided through devious paths to Ada, with whom, by such 
unexpected and winding ways, he had at last reached the 
beleaguered Residency. From the heart of that bloodshed 
and strife he had plucked and guarded her — might he not 
find and save Jessie from the thick of this tumult? He could 
not but remember the piteous records in his mother’s diary, 
and think of the superhuman battle a woman alone in the 
world must fight. That poor young mother’s heart was 
broken ; slie was hiding from shame ; he feared that Jessie 
was equally despairing and equally flying from supposed dis- 
grace, and the pitifulness of it weighed heavily on his heart. 
Yet Heaven had pity on Mary Randal’s child ; would Matthew 
Meade’s be forsaken? Matthew Meade, who had shown such 
beautiful charity and love. In his gratitude there mingled a 
strong hope that it would be given to him to find Matthew’s 
only child. 

But not on that day or the next, or the next, did he find 
her, though he paced the Strand almost daily, and almost 
daily called at the corner shop. Claude Medway did the same, 
and both, acting in concert when needful, did all that could 
be done to trace her. Advertisements were carefully concocted 
and inserted in every newspaper, detectives employed, private 
inquiry agents consulted, likely and unlikely places searched. 
But the days went on ; they lengthened and became sunny and 
warm, the parks were bright with spring foliage and spring 
crowds, gardens and windows were gay with blossom, and no 
further trace of Jessie was discovered. 

Philip’s leave expired, and he exchanged' into a regiment 
stationed at Aldershot. Miss Clara Lonsdale had, with much 
pomp and circumstance of millinery and upholstery, become 
Marchioness of Bardexter ; Algernon Medway had become 
half imbecile ; and Claude Medway was gradually losing heart, 
when one day an unexpected adventure befel him. 


CHAPTEE XII. 


FLIGHT. 

On the clear and sunny afternoon following the great thun- 
derstorm, Jessie, palpitating with fear and shame, passion 
and despair, found herself flying past unfamiliar fields, strange 
towns and villages steeped in golden light, in the afternoon 
express to London — that city of marvel and splendor, whither 
gravitate the greatest thinkers and workers, whose streets are 
paved with gold and canopied with fame ; Jessie, who had 
never travelled express before, or been twenty miles from her 
native steeple, and whose fresh heart had once thrilled at the 
very name of London. 

But she cared little to-day whither she was flying, as long 
as it was away from the magnetism that must soon overpower 
both reason and principle, and from the disgrace that smirched 
her fair name. From both of these she fled, with unreflecting 
fear, seeking only to hide herself, and instinctively choosing 
the vast chaos of London as the most secure place of conceal- 
ment. She thought it the best field for the exercise of the 
art by which in her simplicity she intended to live ; but the 
main purpose in her choice of destination was concealment. 
Every pant of the engine tore some life out of her heart, 
every throb robbed her of hope and strength, since every turn 
of those rushing wheels bore her farther and farther from the 
one being to whom all her nature tended with irresistible 
force. But this flight was her only chance of salvation, as she 
knew by every pang tearing her weak heart. Had she re- 
mained, there was now nothing to save her but the strength 
of that weary, passion-strained young heart, to which she 
dared not trust. 

For Jessie seriously believed herself to be ruined in the 
sight of the world ; she supposed herself to have sinned con- 
ventionally, and thus to have incurred indelible disgrace. Had 
not Claude said so ? Yet was her frail young spirit strong 
enough to resolve not to sin in reality, and thus incur dis- 
grace in the sight of Heaven and of her own accusing soul, 


296 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


those severest, most awful of judges. Thus she rushed 
blindly into exile from all that could ever make life sweet. 

But though she had now crossed her Rubicon and burned 
her boats, she was still perpetually urged by an inward 
prompter to return, to give up honor and duty, soul and 
body to him who was dearer than all besides, whose words 
were celestial symphonies, whose glance was heaven, to re- 
nounce all and cling only to that sheltering embrace ; even 
now she had but to write one word and be happy, beloved, 
sheltered for life. And he was wanting her ! Poor deserted 
Claude ! How base to leave him ! How could anything here 
or hereafter weigh against his happiness ? What would she 
not do for him ? Purity ! — what was that but another name 
for selfishness? Hers, yes! but his? no selfishness there ; 
that thought was ever victorious when her heart was most cru- 
elly wrung. Disgraced in the eyes of men ! How that pain 
ate into her heart as she sped through the golden afternoon, 
with every fibre still quivering freshly with the passion of 
yesterday’s meeting ; but the disgrace was hers alone, it could 
not touch him ; she was glad — not blaming him — never con- 
sidering that he was the author of it. Disgraced ! yes, but 
innocent. Claude’s voice, his beautiful, love-tlirilled voice, 
still rang in her ears, still swayed the tumult within her, the 
magic of his presence still enfolded her, his spirit blended 
with hers as she was borne past the flying stubble-fields, the 
glowing woodlands, the sunny downs. She saw the rushing 
champain steeped in the tender lustre of the autumnal day, 
red-roofed villages, fading moorlands, soft green pastures, 
reddening fern and browning heather, distant hills, mist- 
softened, all tempered by amethystine shadows, with an un- 
seeing eye ; her mental vision was filled with Claude’s face 
traced on the dark background of the storm, roaring through 
the drenched woods. Claude’s face, always beautiful, and 
now eloquent with passion. His words kept echoing in her 
ears — the philosophic theories, the reproaches, the tenderness, 
the anger, the sorrow, the pleading ! Yet above all, like the 
voice of God above the tumult of the storm, boomed in 
deep rolling thunders, “ Thou shalt not,” silencing all else. 

How terrible was this new and untried ocean of feeling, 
this strong clinging of soul to soul, this invincible necessity 
of annihilating seif and merging one’s being in that of another. 
She had never thought that womanhood was to be entered 
through this fiery baptism, she would fain have remained a 
child. How strange to think of hard-faced, common-place 
matrons she knew having drunk of this intoxicating cup. 


■ZiV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 297 

Even Mrs. Plummer in this light acquired an aureole of far- 
off romance, strangely suited with her homely activities and 
russet preoccupations ; had not she, too, once waited with a 
beating heart for the sound of a young footstep, in the twi- 
light ? 

But Mrs. Plummer, on being gently sounded on this point, 
gave out no tender vibrations in response, and Jessie, seek- 
ing sympathy, turned to Sarah on that last night, when her 
faithful old friend sat by her bedside to bear her company 
after the storm. 

“ Yours was a long engagement, Sarah ? ” she said, with a 
tentative wistfulness. 

“ Matter o’ vifteen year,” she replied. 

“ All that time ! ” sighed Jessie’s pure young voice ; “ but 
then you knew that he cared for you, Sarah ? ” 

“Bless you ! Wold chap dedn’t care a straa,” she returned, 
scornfully. 

“ Then why were you engaged ? ” 

“Well S there. Hreckon a thought a med so well hae me as 
ar a ooman. I was hand}' a Zundays.” 

“ But didn’t you care ? ” 

“ Nar a mossel,” she replied, with cheerful indifference. 

“ Then why did you marry Abraham ? ” she asked, in tones 
not without rebuke. 

“ Wanted to bide long wi you. That why I hitched on 4o 
en, I reckon.” 

“Sarah, dear Sarah ! How good you have always been to 
me ! ” Jessie cried, embracing her ; “dear old Sarah, I would 
never leave you if I could possibly help it, indeed I would 
not.” 

To which Sarah replied, with a push and a pleased growl of 
“ Goo on wi ye,” but which she never forgot. 

Travelling, like the celebrated bishop, third-class because 
there was no fourth, Jessie did not see two men travelling by 
first, the sight of either of whom might have altered her fate. 
So she sped on to her doom, sitting all alone in the bare, un- 
cushioned compartment, boarded off like a cattle stall from 
the other divisions, by a partition too high for sight but not 
for sound. She could hear two men quarrelling in foul lan- 
guage, a child wailing, a woman hushing it, and quite near 
her seat, the clink of hand-cuffs on a prisoner travelling to 
the county jail in charge of two policemen. She seemed to 
have been flying on for ages deep, deep into the wide and 
pitiless world. Over dark stretches of fading heather 
they rushed in the sunset, the crimson lustre of which was 


298 


IE THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


mirrored in black tarns ; then the day faded, and the country 
became tame and monotonous ; here were market-gardens 
robbed of their summer spoil ; here squalid streets — was this 
London ? No. They thundered on with shrieking whistle and 
increasing speed, now a crash and darkness close to her face, 
followed by continuous rattling and cracking as if all was 
over, till daylight reappeared and she saw the long serpent 
of a passing train winding away behind them in the dusk. 
Then a bewildering network of iron roads, across which many 
trains careered with mad speed toward each other. What subtle 
brain arranged their course through that intricate maze ? 

But what is this, looming dim, solemn, and majestic in the 
gray and misty sky, a sky so strange to Jessie, with its thick 
veil, through which golden lustre seems ever on the point 
to stream, a sky full of romance and poetic suggestion? 
Slender, unsubstantial, and mist-like as are those towers 
piercing the mist, she knows them well. This is London at 
last ; there are the houses of Parliament ; everywhere is the 
sparkle of innumerable lights in the faint twilight. 

The magic city, the great heart of the nation’s life, with its 
churches, palaces, and theatres, its storied buildings and holy 
places, its miles upon miles of stone-hearted streets, its mil- 
lions of living, rejoicing, suffering human beings, lay before 
her at last ; but she was too crushed and troubled to heed 
what would otherwise have filled her with vivid interest. The 
train thundered into the grim, great, dirty echoing station, 
and the stimulating sense of vastness which for a moment 
touched her at the first sight of the greatest city on earth, 
faded in that dreary place, the smoke and grime of which sug- 
gested the sunless prisons of hell, and which was large 
without grandeur, and gloomy without majesty. The noises 
were irritating, the strange cries confused her, the bustle and 
hurry bewildered. 

Dizzy with the unaccustomed motion and smell of smoke 
and oil, tired and over-wrought, she stood on the pavement, 
jostled by hurrying passengers and their luggage, lialf- 
frightened by the hoarse shouts of “Now, miss,” and “By’r 
leave there ! ” of porters clattering past her with laden 
trucks — not knowing what to do. Parents anxiously gather- 
ing their broods about them, grave but eager business 
men, fine ladies with their trains of maids and footmen, 
middle-class ladies with numerous parcels, w T ell-to-do gentle- 
men followed by serviceable porters, all sorts of people, hurried 
by, claiming luggage, calling cabs, meeting and parting from 
friends. Jostled hither and thither by the crowd, she drew 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


299 


aside beneath the dull yellow gaslight, and waited, alone at 
nightfall, without one friend in all the millions of that great 
city. She watched the passing tide of passengers, timidly 
seeking some friendly and less self-centred face to ask advice. 
Presently she selected a prosperous, jovial-faced fellow carry- 
ing a bag, but on addressing him, was met by a look that 
made her shrink back trembling. She next tried a kind, com- 
fortable-looking matron all bags and shawls, who measured 
her all over with a look of cold, hard disapproval, and passed 
on by the side of her husband, who regarded her for a mo- 
ment with blank indifference. A sense of her own helpless 
isolation and of the wide world’s stony cruelty, weighed 
upon her under those chilling looks and filled her with des- 
pair. 

Yet some paces further off among the crowd were two men, 
each of whom was thinking of her, and each of whom would 
have given his life to save her from her impending fate. 

“Keb, miss? ” asked a porter, looking with wonder at her 
fair, troubled face, when at last she ventured to follow the 
crowd and claim her box. 

“I — I don’t know,” she faltered, “I am a stranger. I 
don’t know where to go. Would you be so kind as to tell me 
of a suitable place — quiet and respectable — to go to for the 
night ? ” 

He looked at her with many shades of expression, all merg- 
ing in amazement. 

“ What ? Don’t you know were yer friends live ? ” he asked, 
at last. 

“ I — I have no friends in London,” she replied, guiltily. 

« Something wrong here,” he said ; “you’re from the coun- 
try, never been in town before, I’ll wager.” 

“No ; I am quite alone in the world and I should be so 
much obliged if you would tell me where to ask for a respect- 
able lodging for the night,” she replied, earnestly and with 
pleading eyes ; “ I am come to town to find work. I have not 
much money.” 

He looked at her long in silence, then shouldering her 
light box and bidding her follow him, he went to a third- 
class waiting-room, where he stopped and told her to wait 
half an hour. 

He returned punctually at the appointed time and led her 
up many stairs and across several platforms, a long way, till 
they reached a first-class waiting-room, where he stopped and 
told her that the woman who was in attendance was respect- 
able and clean, and would be glad to let her have a room in 


300 


IN TEE HEART OF THE STORM. 


her house for a moderate sum, providing she kept herself 
honest and respectable. 

Then he took her to a dingy, thin-faced woman, who was 
making herself some tea with a furtive air and eating thick 
bread and butter stealthily. 

“This is the young lady, Mrs. Barker,” he said. “I must 
hook it now. The keb and box ’ll be all right.” 

“It isn’t much of a ’ouse for the likes of you, miss,” said 
the woman, anxiously, “ but it’s clean and respectable. 
There’s only me and my daughter, who does dressmakin’ for 
a firm. Five shillings a week paid in advance is my terms, and 
a week’s notice when leavin’. We takes in single men and 
does for them generally, but no objections to a respectable 
young woman as pays regular.” 

Jessie thought herself fortunate. Her whole capital con- 
sisted of thirteen pounds five shillings and sixpence ; it had 
been acquired by selling two or three pictures at home, and 
would no doubt speedily be doubled and trebled by the same 
means in London ; in the meantime it behoved her to be 
careful. She had to wait until Mrs. Barker left for the night, 
when the cab and box were brought by the friendly porter, 
whom she cordially thanked and bid good-night, offering her 
hand instead of money. The porter, though a family man 
and poor, preferred the hand and looked after the departing 
cab with interest. “A screw loose somewhere,” he said to 
himself ; “ I’ll keep a good look-out on the advertisements for 
a week or so.” 

So Jessie awoke next morning in a dingy, stuffy room in a 
back street of Westminster, to the beautiful music of the 
clock chimes, feeling as if all her previous life lay a century 
behind her and she had been transported to another age. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


LOST IN LONDON. 

A fortnight later, Jessie, wan, wasted, and forlorn, paused 
with weary feet before Westminster Abbey, a grand gray mass 
in the dim sunshine filtering through the canopy of golden 
mist. She turned in at Poet’s Corner to read the great names 
with some vague and solemn feeling of companionship, and 
was comforted by the quietness, when the door closed behind 
her and the great wave of roaring traffic surged away in a low 
hushed murmur, rolling very softly and soothingly among the 
dim shadowy arches. 

The stillness, the subdued lights and mysterious shadows, 
the unaccountable rumbling echoes like silence audible, the 
perfect symmetry of those slender columns ascending with 
such rapid precision till they merged in the narrow-pointed 
vaultings far overheard ; the long dim vistas suggestive of 
endless continuance, the multiplicity and accuracy of the per- 
pendicular lines in this kind of architecture, a multiplicity 
which stimulates rather than confuses, the great antiquity and 
sanctity of the place and its manifold associations, all com- 
bined to calm and elevate her thoughts and refresh her jaded 
nerves. She had never seen a cathedral before, and the fas- 
cination of old Gothic architecture was strong enough to 
overpower the effect of those huge and hideous monuments 
blocking fine vistas and marring beautiful combinations. 

Here, in the presence of entombed kings and warriors, saints 
and sages, the bitter present dwindled to its proper insignifi- 
cance ; she felt the continuity of national life, and the convic- 
tion that to-day is the final result of innumerable yesterdays 
impressed her, when her eyes rested on stones seen by eyes 
which turned to dust centuries ago, and hallowed by the prayers 
of long dead generations. She was glad to sit in a shadowed 
nook and let these larger thoughts and nerve impressions sink 
quietly into her, and so forget herself for a little while. 

All that day, and nearly every day since her flight, she had 
wandered wearily, vainly seeking work, with an ever-sinking 
heart and ever-shrinking purse. She had ventured into the 


302 


IJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


National Gallery, and there seen that it must be long before 
she could grasp the elements of art ; she saw it with a heavy 
apathy foreign to her, for what is art to one who has no desire 
or hope not fatally- bruised ? She had met with rebuffs, sneers 
— worst of all, that dreadful form of admiration which is insult. 

Not only was all hope gone, but every illusion had faded 
from her ruined youth ; men had stones for hearts, the fairy 
city was paved with mud for gold. Never in her life had she 
seen such grime and squalor ; the smoke and fog polluted her 
very breath ; she could not open her ill-fitting window-sash 
without letting in a swarm of smuts to soil the close, dingy 
room she had cleansed with her own hands. Of the moral filth 
she had as yet caught but a few lurid glimpses. 

Never was woman’s heart more sick for home than Jessie’s 
when she stole into the Abbey in the chill of that autumn after- 
noon ; the mere thought of a home face brought tears to her 
eyes, how much more that of the one human being whose soul 
was the soul of hers, and whose life was the spring of her own ! 
And those Marwell woods, partly suggested by these gray 
vistas of clustering pillars, woods whose green arches had 
rustled above their blissful meetings and vibrated into their 
spoken words. The things discussed there were always echo- 
ing through her memory, and opening up fresh reaches of 
thought in her silent solitude ; she was continually framing 
questions that could never be answered. Truly strange and 
terrible was this clinging of heart to heart, this deep longing 
that wasted her strength and consumed her like wax in flame ; 
this battle was indeed with burning and fuel of fire, fiercer 
than that of the warrior with its confused noise and garments 
rolled in blood. 

She had eaten nothing that day since a scanty early break- 
fast, had spoken only to hard strangers who looked upon her 
with stony eyes ; she saw actual starvation before her. Then, 
while she sat kindled by the solemn beauty of the Abbey, and 
consumed by the eating pain of her soul, a spirit from the 
nether darkness flitted unseen to her ear with bland whisper- 
ings, asking her why she suffered and strove so far beyond her 
strength. For a narrow prejudice, for a word’s sake, as Claude 
had told her. For this shadow of a punctilio she had left him 
who loved and needed her, lonely, wretched, perhaps bitter 
* and reckless ; for this she had renounced the very life of life, 
a lot so fair and noble, so bright with unusual promise. She 
thought of the world’s beauty, of noble historic scenes, of 
music and art in fair and ancient foreign cities, of mountain 
grandeur, castle-bordered rivers, legend-haunted forests, lovely 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


303 


scenes in which they two might wander braced and elevated 
by holy passion and noble sympathy, all in all to each other, 
living a life of pure intellectual and emotional happiness, each 
supplementing the deficiencies and enhancing the gifts of the 
other, harming none and unreproached. Was he missing her 
now with the same sick and stormy yearning that wasted her 
life ? How dared she leave him ? That one face was never 
quite absent from her thoughts, now rose vividly before her, 
its beauty enhanced, its passion sublimated, invisible arms 
were silently folded about her ; she heard the music of the un- 
forgotten voice whose lightest tone stirred her to the depths, 
her lips glowed with a remembered kiss. She no more con- 
sidered the beauty of the dim long drawn aisles, her marble- 
white, anguished face was buried in her quivering hands, while 
the dark spirit marshalled vision after vision before her, gazed 
reproachfully on her with Claude’s eyes, and spoke in his voice. 

The time drew on to evensong. The low, mellow thunders 
of organ music boomed in upon her tumultuous thoughts, she 
trembled to the beauty of that great sea of sound ; never 
before had she heard such music, the solid masonry seemed 
to quiver at the shock of those rolling billows of harmony ; 
such music must spring from some diviner source than mor- 
tals can conceive. 

Now it seemed to accuse her. “ Jessie, Jessie,” it thun- 
dered, “ what thoughts are these ? ” and she shuddered. 
Then a sweet spring of melody rose swiftly and lightly froln 
the depths of harmony. “ Lift up your hearts,” it sang, but 
her heart sank like lead in the deep waters of earthly pain. 
“Jessie, this is God’s house,” it boomed, in majestic menace, 
“and such thoughts are the devil’s thoughts.” Yet the 
thoughts poured in more swiftly, and beads of sweat stood 
cold on her troubled brow. The soul of one mortal man drew 
hers with irresistible force to itself, and the strength of 
mighty angels was vain to save her. The organ storm died 
away in silver peace, but that in her heart raged. From her 
hidden nook she heard a mellow voice soaring upward. “ I will 
arise and go to my Father,” it chanted ; but she could not fol- 
low that divine forerunner, the path of heaven w r as too steep 
for her, she was not made of stuff strong enough to fashion 
saints. 

The mellow, hushed, chanting of the unseen choir began, 
wings of unseen angels were fluttered by its breath, but the 
dark spirits would not take flight. All the tender and deep 
emotions of a full and dual life, the clinging of children s 
arms, the light of their eyes, all the beauty and glory of life 


304 IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 

were revealed to lier, and at last she saw the man whose life 
hung upon hers, deserted, desperate, reckless. “ I will go 
home, I will go to him,” she said. “ What does my life mat- 
ter ? He shall be happy. Heaven is only where he breathes.” 
She raised her head and rested it against the stone pillar, list- 
lessly hearing the chanting of the evening Psalms ; never had 
she heard such sweet and soothing singing as this. 

“ Hold thee still in the Lord and wait patiently for him — 
fret not thyself.” How beautiful the familiar words rang in 
the rich restrained music ! “ I myself beheld the ungodly in 

great power and flourishing like a green bay tree. Yet a lit- 
tle while and the wicked shall not be — I sought him, and he 
was not found.” 

Yes, the richest earthly happiness was but for a day, and 
then? Jessie could not do deliberate wrong, however she 
might err through frailty or ignorance, and what would 
wrong profit the soul that was dearer than her own ? The 
singing went on, now softer, now stronger, like sea waves. 
“ Put thou thy trust in God and be doing good, and He shall 
bring it to pass,” the clear boy -voices sang, and before they 
ceased the dark spirit folded his wings and sank into the 
depths of the everlasting storm, peace stole into Jessie’s torn 
heart, crowned and winged presences seemed to draw near 
her. The evening prayers sank liealingly into her soul, tears 
fell softly over her pale and wasted young face. 

Once more the organ storm broke forth in splendid tumult 
and the voices of the full choir pealed majestically through it. 
“ The Lord is King, be the people never so impatient ; he sit- 
teth above the water flood, be the people never so unquiet.” 
Then a lonely golden tenor voice complained, “The sorrows 
of death encompassed me, the overflowings of ungodliness 
made me afraid — the pains of hell gat hold of me,” until once 
more the tumult of the full choir broke in with the refrain, 
“ He sitteth above the water-flood, be the people never so un- 
quiet.” Then from those stormy depths of harmony rose a 
pure and happy boy-voice, “I waited for the Lord and he in- 
clined unto me ” — “ He hath set my feet upon the rock ” — “He 
hath put a new song into my mouth, and ordered all my 
goings,” it sang in lucid melody, falling like a shower of light 
and melting finally into the triumphant, jubilant, multitudi- 
nous shout of the full choir, “ The Lord is King.” 

Awed, soothed, uplifted in heart, Jessie sat still and listened 
to holy words and holy song, till the benediction sank into 
her heart, and the final strains of music died away. She was 
resolute now to keep on in the only path that seemed safe to 


nr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


305 


her, to seek her bread by painful toil, .and failing that to 
starve, but never, never, sin. She remained in her tranquil 
nook until vast winged shadows gathered heavily in the aisles 
and the arched roof became a brooding darkness, when a 
verger stumbled upon her and bid her go, as it was time to 
close. 

The lamps were lighted, they glittered in myriad starry 
points beneath the faintly luminous sky, which must have been 
bright behind its dim veil of mist when Jessie came into the 
frosty air and bent her steps to the squalid street where she 
lodged. 

Months rolled on and brought the warm, bright summer 
days, and hope was almost dead in Claude’s heart. He had 
long since given up haunting the shop in the Strand ; but he 
still wandered in many of the streets, and saw many a ter- 
rible phase of London life. On wild nights he stood outside 
workhouse doors and scanned the ghastly faces of the hun- 
ger-stricken crowd waiting for admittance. He went about 
with missionaries and clergymen and made inquiries at hos- 
pitals and refuges. All sorts of stories were told of him. He 
was writing a book and gathering material in the streets, he 
had been converted, become a lay reader, a Bible man, an 
Outside Evangelist. He was going to stand for the borough 
of Cleeve, had turned Radical, and was collecting matter for 
social reform. He had become a Roman Catholic, had left 
the country and was preparing for the priesthood. He had 
originated a new secular religion and was busy propagating 
it. He had fallen into a state of melancholy that obliged him 
to live in seclusion and threatened madness. He had be- 
come a philanthropist, a Mormon. He had certainly vanished 
from his world, some inhabitants of which were now and then 
startled by the appearance of his ghost in the streets. 

When the summer came he began to reappear in club-land, 
at Lady Bardexter’s receptions, which were very magnificent, 
and here and there in the world that no doubt is gay and 
often magnificent. Meeting him was like seeing a ghost, yet 
there was nothing uncanny in him. He had always been 
charming, he was now more so, the old tact, courtesy, and 
grace seemed now to spring from a deeper source. His con-, 
versation was perhaps more finely pointed and many facetted 
but less frequently sharpened by malice, He was firmly com 
vinced now that he should see Jessie no more. 

And yet in those winter wanderings he had been very near 
her, once her dress had actually touched him. The day was 
wet, the Strand was a sea of umbrellas, and he was leaving the 
30 


306 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


corner print shop, in the window of which Jessie, white and 
hollow-eyed, was gazing, her face, now always veiled since its 
beauty had attracted so much notice, was further concealed 
by her dripping umbrella. 

Remember then,” she heard in the well-known voice, “ ten 
pounds for the address. But she is on no account to know 
who bought the picture.” So saying as he turned back a 
moment after having set forth, he walked quickly away, his 
umbrella striking against hers. She stood rooted to the 
ground, fearing to betray herself by so much as a breath, 
holding the shaken umbrella with all her strength between 
them, while he made a hurried apology and went on. She 
blessed the rain, but for that they must have come face to 
face. She went no more to the shop in the Strand. 

Mr. Ingleby had been told of the slight clue they had 
found, as well as of the certainty that Jessie had gone away 
of her own free will, and he had put Philip and Claude in 
communication with charitable and missionary institutions 
and referred them to places where young women are emplo}’- 
ed. And once being in town for a few days Mr. Ingleby had 
gone with Claude Medway to look at the . body of an unknown 
young woman who had been found dead of want, and who 
was described as having blue eyes and abundance of fair hair, 
and the same height and age as Jessie. Entering the mor- 
tuary they saw a slight, shrouded form lying in the stony still- 
ness of death, the outlines of the face were faintly visible 
under the white sheet, from beneath which flowed one long 
fair tress of curling hair. 

Mr. Ingleby, pale and quivering, advanced in all reverence 
to the shrouded head, but Claude clutched his arm and drew 
him back with a sharp cry. “ Wait, wait, -wait ! ” he repeated 
in harsh and increasingly strident tones, pointing to the long, 
fair curls which he knew to be Jessie’s. 

“ It must be done,” Mr. Ingleby said at last. “Let me do it. 
Stand back.” 

“ No, no,” he replied with a dissonant laugh. “ What, man ? 
Afraid of a face? of a dead girl’s face ? ” Striking him oft* he 
rushed forward, then stopped and trembled. Mr. Ingleby 
was afraid he would fall upon the quiet form, the repose of 
which was the more awe inspiring in contrast with the living 
man’s emotion. Twice he touched and twice dropped the 
corner of the sheet, and then with clenched teeth and rigid 
face he lifted it, slowly, solemnly, steadily, and folded it back 
on the icy breast. Mr. Ingleby watching him, turned sick and 
covered his face, he could bear to look no more. A dull rus- 


IJSr THE HEART OF THE STORM. 307 

tie and thud roused him, he looked up and saw Claude lying 
on the ground by the unveiled face. 

Sharp with want and worn with suffering the young dead 
face was piteous enough in its marble immobility and marred 
comeliness, and yet Mr. Ingleby’s heart throbbed with thank- 
fulness at the sight of the unfamiliar features, waiting vainly 
for the recognition of a friend or kinsman, and mutely sug- 
gesting who could tell what prolonged and unspeakable agony. 
He gently replaced the cover with a silent prayer for the un- 
friended dead, and then helped the attendants to remove 
Claude and place him in the open air. 

“ She had a look,” Claude said, when he revived and gazed 
into Mr. Ingleby’s kind blue eyes, which were wet with some- 
thing that did him no discredit, “ she had a look — of Fanny.” 

Fanny’s face had followed him ever since he had seen the 
account of her death and read the share “that young officer” 
had in it. Fanny’s face, young and full of a mute, piteous 
appeal he had never seen in her days of innocent joy, her face 
as he imagined it after the last desperate act ; and with Fanny’s 
face came the thought of the awful army for the ranks of 
which he had qualified her. Night and day he was haunted 
by the misery, degradation, and far-reaching infection of that 
ghastly host. Faces that formerly he would pass without no- 
tice now compelled his earnest attention, faces beneath whose 
assumed reckless defiance he read secretly gnawing misery, 
beneath whose exaggerated boldness he saw the stinging con- 
sciousness of shame, beneath whose artificial bloom and hard 
smiles he detected the ceaseless canker of remorse. And to 
what end was this outcast host enrolled? Was it, as some 
moralists aver, the heavy price at which social decorum is pur- 
chased, a price paid by scapegoats who do not benefit by it ? 
If so nature and society must be equally and unutterably 
cruel. Christianity must be a lie, and the whole accepted 
code of ethics false. Demand creates supply, and yet all the 
want, despair, misery, betrayed innocence, and occasional 
vice of the one sex is insufficient to supply the demand made 
by the vice of the other. Hence the impressment service of 
which he now began to know something, the snares of false 
advertisements, the accredited agents waiting to beguile 
young foreigners stepping ashore on either side of the Chan- 
nel, with offers of respectable lodgings, false directions and 
false introductions, the deliberate shipping of girls from one 
country to another under false pretences, the incredible net- 
work of complicated villany, by which youth, childhood, in- 
nocence, and ignorance are entangled and destroyed and by 


308 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


which Jessie’s footsteps were so likely to have been snared. 
Yet the agony of this haunting terror was surely a just retri- 
bution. What if Jessie rose thus ensnared to confront him 
at the last ? 


“ For if, as blindfold fates are tossed, 

Through some one man this life be lost, 

Shall soul not somehow pay for soul? ” 

Yes ; soul must and will pay for soul. — 

“ At Judgment one of his own race, 

As frail and lost as you, shall rise, 

His daughter with his mother’s eyes.” 

To suffer one’s self is bad, but to suffer vicariously in the 
persons of those most dear is the real torture. 

At night, when wandering, as he now so frequently did, 
through places in which these things were most evident, the 
agony of such reflections became intolerable, and again more 
intolerable the perpetual question — why this misery? The 
answer came from his heart. For want of the true manliness 
of self-control, the true chivalry that scorns to take advantage 
of weakness. That dead girl whom he had feared to be 
Jessie, had been very hungry for many weeks, and yet she 
had robbed no rich baker of the crumbs that would have 
kept her alive. She starved rather than steal. 

Brooding is madness. He could no longer bear the strain 
of these thoughts, which for a time were a necessity, thoughts 
which “ make a goblin of the sun,” and having begun to reap- 
pear in society and given up all hope of finding Jessie in the 
chaotic mass of London humanity, he decided to seek healing 
in travel somewhere far from civilization, to begin a fresh life, 
with fresh aims and interests. For what profit was there in 
madness ? 

One scorching afternoon in July, after a day and night of 
rain, Claude Medway had been to Waterloo Station to see his 
mother off for Marweli Court, and walked back in the heat, 
partly from the force of the street wandering habits he had 
formed in the vain search for Jessie. The sun scorched as it 
does after rain, the streets were malodorous, no cab w r as in 
sight; he walked listlessly on, what Lady Gertrude had just 
said of Ethel, whose feeble strength seemed rapidly waning, 
filling his mind. Ethel was the most precious thing left him ; 
he always found time to run down to Marweli and try to 
brighten her up, and her associations with lost Jessie had 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


309 


given a fresh tenderness to his affections for her. And she 
was going. 

Cool as the river looked from Westminster Bridge, it 
flashed back the sheets of sunshine so blindingly into his eyes 
that he turned them away to the pavement. 

A policeman, slowly pacing the hot flags, was laying his 
hand heavily on the shoulder of a slight young woman, sitting 
half crouched in a recess of the parapet. Claude heard the 
stern “ Move on ” twice repeated before the woman rose very 
slowly, and moved on, dragging her limbs painfully. 

Just as she turned at last to go, the blazing sunlight caught 
a coil of golden hair beneath her shabby bonnet ; a momen- 
tary darkness came before Claude’s eyes, the Parliament 
Houses spun wildly round, everything seemed inverted. A 
moment more and he was at the woman’s side, crying, in a 
thrilling voice, “Jessie ! ” 


CHAPTEK XIV. 


WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 

Sounds reached Jessie’s numbed mind but slowly, muffled, 
faint, and far-off as voices from the past winding through the 
labyrinthine mazes of changing dreams. They mingled with 
the misty visions that kept rising and fusing themselves one 
with another in a soft, vague phantasmagoria, veiling the ex- 
ternal world, blocking the avenues of sense, confounding time 
and place, the present and the past, here and elsewhere, in 
the perpetually shifting cloudland they wove round about her 
consciousness in many-colored iris-woof. 

She seemed to be sitting, not at the end of Westminster 
Bridge, but at the corner of the bridge by the mill at home ; 
she saw, not Westminster Palace, but the homely, hoary front 
of Stillbrooke Mill, with its carven date above the half-door, 
over which her father leant, looking out as ever with kind 
eyes on the world. The pigeons preened themselves in the 
sunshine, the swans glided majestically above the mirrored 
reflections they were contemplating with enamored glances. 
The far-off hum and near roar of London traffic was changed 
to the soothing rush of the stream and soft throb of the mill, 
the baffled waves were spurned from the turning wheel and 
the white feet of angels passed up the moving stair, shining 
wings floated upward and mingled with bright pinions such 
as to her fancy were always hovering about the dim spaces 
of the Abbey. Now the organ-music rolled its mellow thun- 
der, and beautiful awful faces full of wonder and worship 
clustered round her in gracious throngs. The faces of father 
and mother mingled with them, and Philip’s and Claude’s. 
Then came that cry of “Jessie,” so thrilling with passion and 
tenderness, sorrow and agony, pity and wonder, from a far, 
far distance, piercing the web of vision, and revealing the 
actual hard blank world once more. The policeman’s stern 
“ Move on,” had only reached some outer gate of sensation, 
had influenced her body without changing the poise of her 
thoughts, but this “Jessie” touched the vital core of her 
heart. 


nr the heart of the storm. 311 

“Claude,” she replied in a faint and shadowy voice, as the 
reality of his face, moved as she had never known it, grew 
upon her and chased the visionary shadows farther and far- 
ther from her brain. “Claude, here?” 

The time for shrinking from him was gone by, it was now 
a pleasant and peaceful thing to be near him ; she had fought 
her battle to the deadly end and feared nothing; she had 
passed beyond and above temptation, in the fierce furnace of 
suffering, the fire of which was still upon her. 

“Oh! Jessie,” he cried, “like this! — I drove you to this.” 
She was instinctively moving on, and Claude with her, a 
singular pair in the brqad, bright glare of the July sun, in the 
thick of the daily traffic. Worn and weather-stained as her 
clothing was, and in spite of her utter exhaustion, she had 
still an air of grace and refinement ; her sharpened, wan, and 
hollow face was alight with a supernatural beauty, her large, 
purple-ringed eyes shone with an intense and spiritual brill- 
iance. To Claude she seemed an accusing angel, embodied 
in the sweet semblance of the woman he loved, whose youth 
and beauty had kindled a deathless fire in his heart and 
wasted in its flame. 

The sight of the passing crowds recalled him to a full sense 
of the situation, and an empty cab coming in sight, he hailed 
it, placed Jessie in it and got in himself. “ When did you 
eat last ? ” he asked when the cab moved on. 

“I don’t — remember,” she replied with an effort, “one 
morning — ” she had now lost count of the days — “yes, it was 
in the morning.” 

He had seen something of starvation, especially in his 
recent wanderings, and when Jessie spoke thus, he noted the 
waxen wanness of her face with an awful, awful fear. Was it 
too late ? He could not think for the moment what to do ; 
with a blind impulse he had told the driver to go to Dean’s 
Yard, where he stopped. “Can you walk a little?” he then 
asked ; “as far as the cloisters?” 

She had been walking three days and three nights to the 
grim, monotonous music of the policemen’s “ Move on,” and 
it seemed ridiculous to be asked if she could walk a few yards 
farther. 

Yet she could not remember how she got there when she 
found herself sitting in a corner by an open archway through 
which the air came freshly into the cool cloisters. She seemed 
to be alone for awhile ; then Claude was there, again bending- 
over her, giving her restoratives. Then things became clearer, 


312 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


reality fastened itself more firmly upon her, slie remembered 
all that had befallen her since she ran away from temptation. 

She had sold one picture, only one. Then she found the 
address of a Royal Academician and presented herself at his 
studio to ask advice. From him she learnt that she might 
procure employment as a model, that her drawings showed 
marked talent, but that she could do nothing without years 
of study. She sat to him. 

Then she went as a model from studio to studio for some 
weeks, until she found that there were incidents in such a life 
that she was unfitted to cope with, undesirable companions 
and associations, and that here, too, her fatal beauty exposed 
her to annoyances, alone as she was. Lucy Barker, her land- 
lady’s humpbacked daughter, put her in the way of obtaining 
a little needlework from time to time, else she had no means 
of earning bread. By pawning her few possessions she kept 
alive, she scarcely knew how; she would have given up her 
humble lodging but that the Barkers entreated her to stay, 
in their charity, till another lodger came. Then she fell into 
such straits that she was minded to write to Philip ; but she 
knew she must die before a letter could reach India and be 
answered. She might have written to her other guardians, 
but her knowledge of Cousin Jane’s inflexible condemnation 
of girls in false positions was heightened by the sight of a 
local paper in which her disappearance was commented upon 
in words that made her ears tingle. Mrs. Barker had rela- 
tions near Cleeve who sometimes sent her a local paper, and 
she had lent this to Jessie. After this she was more careful 
than ever not to say w r hence she came. An orphan from the 
country, leaving the house of distant relations to fight for her- 
self in London, was by no means an extraordinary phenome- 
non to the Barkers. But when at last the room was let Jes- 
sie wandered forth rather than prey upon their hard-working 
poverty, her last penny being gone. Then followed a time 
that she did not clearly remember, of wandering in the 
streets, of resting on seats in public gardens and parks, under 
archways, on doorsteps, day and night, in pouring rain and 
hot sun, and being continually moved on. The workhouse 
was for her too dreadful an alternative to be seriously con- 
templated. Once during this wandering she went into the 
Abbey, which had become to her a home and sanctuary, the 
solemn beauty, the music, and the chanted prayers of which 
had so often strengthened and refreshed her. She thought it 
would be pleasant to creep into some corner and die there. 
But a verger stopped her on the threshold and warned her 


Itf THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


313 


away; she looked too shabby and poverty-stricken to be re- 
spectable, and had been there already for some hours. 

The varied horrors of that wandering she never told. She 
remembered them now as she sat in the cool cloister, revived 
a little by the nourishment Claude had procured, and listen- 
ing to the mellow chanting of the evensong, softened by dis- 
tance and inexpressibly soothing. 

All the agony was ended now, and death coming in gentle 
guise, like the full, calm wave of a sunset sea, bearing her 
softly from the shore into the illimitable glory in the track of 
the sunken sun. She was very contrite, conscious of having 
made some vital mistake in this lonely wandering through the 
wide world, and yet she lelt that she could not have done other- 
wise. By the infinite mercy of God she had passed scathe- 
less through the perils of the great and wicked city. She 
was dimly conscious of celestial presences, glowing faces 
crowned and haloed, mingling with the music, but more 
keenly conscious of Claude’s face in the centre of all, attuned 
in its solemnity and thankfulness to the rising surge of 
psalmody now breaking upon the rock-like pillars. 

“ Dearest,” he said, when he saw a more conscious look in 
her hazed eyes, “ you must be my wife now, I must not lose 
sight of you any more.” 

“Oh, no,” she replied, “you gave your word to your 
father!” 

“That is all changed. She is married. I am free. I 
have fortune now.” 

“ Too late ! But I am glad, oh ! so glad, to see you once 
more. And you will tell Philip.” 

“Philip is in London, looking for you.” 

This, too, seemed quite natural, and as pleasant as it was 
natural. It was so refreshing to rest in the cool cloister with 
her head against one of the slender stone pilasters, to hear 
no more of the dreaded “ Move on.” A sort of victorious 
calm fell upon her with a strange and infinitely peaceful up- 
lifting of soul ; her struggles were ended, her warfare accom- 
plished, there was to be no more sorrow or pain, nor any 
doubt or terror ; she was in heaven. 

A magnificent strain of triumphant music now rose from 
organ and choir as the anthem pealed its victorious harmony 
from within the Abbey, bearing her soul heavenward on its 
mighty pinions. The words were vague to her, but she saw 
the white-winged multitude, who came out of great tribula- 
tions. sweeping softly by with aureoles and palms. Then 
she slept. 


314 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Claude was near her now and they were at last one in soul ; 
no distracting duty could ever tear them apart, though dif- 
ferent worlds might hold them for awhile. 

Presently she was aware of two figures with surprised com- 
passionate faces standing by him. Evensong was over and 
the organist filled the Abbey with exulting music. 

“Jessie,” Claude was saying very gently, as if to a sick 
person, “ these are my cousins, Canon and Mrs. Maynard. 
They wish you to go to their house close by.” 

Very soon after this she was in a cool, pretty room lying 
in fragrant fresh linen, her weary aching head pillowed softly 
and her limbs at rest for the first time for many days and 
nights. 

Philip was now stationed at Aldershot. He had not lost 
all hope of finding Jessie, and in his frequent runs to London 
tried to follow the inquiries he had begun. His father had 
of late become almost imbecile, and helpless in body. Philip 
went to see him now and then, and brought him dainties to 
eat and pictures to look at. They would play games or range 
masses of toy soldiers in battle array. The firing of toy can- 
non was the old man’s greatest joy. He was by no means a 
pleasant old child ; his temper was bad and his language 
worse. Sometimes he asked Philip who he was, and seemed 
bewildered when informed. He generally called Philip “ Papa,” 
and always cried when he 1 went away. The visit usually be- 
gan by a woful tale of injury from the miserable old child ; 
his attendants had always been cruel, taken away his play- 
things, given him physic, tried to poison him, and he had 
threatened to tell his papa. 

This piteous recital had been gone through one afternoon, 
they were engaged in a game of draughts, the young papa 
being careful to let the old son win, when a servant came in 
to say that Captain Medway was below and must see Philip 
at once, an announcement that drew execrations from the 
wretched old draught-player. 

Philip for once was deaf to his dismal howls and went 
down-stairs without delay. He found Claude standing by 
the window, with an expression in his face that half awed 
him. “ Is it — Jessie ? ” Philip gasped. 

“ She is found,” he replied, with a calm solemnity that 
struck cold to Philip’s heart. 

“ Not dead, oh, not dead !” he pleaded. 

“ No,” he replied with the same calm solemn sadness ; “ but, 
oh, God ! — starving.” 


11? the heart of THE STORM. 315 

At this his calmness deserted him and he gave way to his 
grief. 

Philip sat down and passed his handkerchief over his damp 
forehead. “ Starving,” he repeated in a dull way, “little Jes- 
sie starving ! ” and he thought of Matthew Meade’s charity 
to himself, his daily bread, and all his careful up-brinekm. 
“ Starving ! Little Jessie ! ” 

Presently Claude mastered himself and spoke again. 
“ Wandering in the streets,” he said, in a voice of dreary an- 
guish ; “ all night wandering homeless, told to move on. I 
found her in the street an hour since.” 

“Where? Where ?” cried Philip, starting up. “I must 
go to her. Why lose a moment ? ” He grudged Claude the 
finding of her. He had given up so much, and travelled so 
far to seek and save her, and all in vain. Yet not quite in 
vain, since he set Claude on the track ; it was given to Claude, 
who had caused the misery, to discover her ; it seemed un- 
just. But Jessie was found ; there was unutterable joy in 
that. 

“She is safe, now,” Claude replied ; “housed and fed, in 
good hands.” And having briefly told him the story, they 
started together for Westminster. 

“ I told them all,” Claude said, as they drove along. “ I 
said I would telegraph for you, and came here on the off 
chance of finding you. The marriage, with special license 
and consent of guardians, can take place in a few days. In 
the meantime, even if it were prudent to move her, she can- 
not be better placed than with the Maynards ; they are un- 
worldly, kind people. Her face touched them.” 

“ The Maynards ! ” Philip remembered that Ada had once 
said that the Maynards were related to the Med ways of Mar- 
well Court. 

“ Yes, that is their name. They seemed to know all about 
you. Didn’t you meet some of their people at Lucknow ? ” 

Jessie was not to be disturbed or excited ; but, if possible, 
to sleep. Philip was only permitted to look through a chink 
of the door and see the faint outline of her recumbent form 
and her golden hair streaming in bright waves over the pil- 
low, and the sight satisfied him for the time. 

“We will take great care of your ward, Captain Bandal,” 
said a woman’s voice behind him, as a hand was laid on his 
arm to draw him away and the door was softly closed. 
“ Rest and nourishment are all she needs, our doctor says.” 

He turned and saw an elderly lady with bright gray hair, 
kind eyes, and a very gentle manner ; it was the childless 


316 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


wife of Canon Maynard. “It is refreshing to have anything 
so young and beautiful in our house,” she added, “ and ro- 
mantically interesting,” she thought. But Philip said they 
had no right to invade her house in this manner, and spoke 
of moving Jessie as soon as possible. 

“We owe much to you,” she replied. “You rescued one 
as young as this dear child and in even greater peril — our dear 
niece Ada. We were at Windsor when you were decorated, 
and took care to write and describe the ceremony to the Li- 
onel Maynards. They had told us how you won the Cross. 
From what I hear I think that a nobler cross has been won by 
one now beneath our roof. Both of you are with friends, 
remember.” 

He silently bowed over the lady’s hand and kissed it. Then 
he remembered that Ada Maynard had spoken of visits to 
relations in a pleasant house beneath the shadow of the 
Abbey. 

Two days later he found himself there again, in an upper 
room, through the flower-garnished open window of which 
the street sounds came softened, mingled sometimes with the 
faint boom of organ music, and dominated by the sweet 
cadence of the palace chimes. 

It was not long before the door opened, and there entered, 
not the little Jessie of his remembrance, the pale child who 
clung so tearfully to him at the station when they parted, but 
a tall figure, slender almost to emaciation, yet of a perfect 
grace. The shining masses of her sunny hair were gathered 
back in a ribbon, she was clad in white floating draperies, 
there was a light in her deep violet eyes and a radiance in her 
flushed though thin face, together with a dignity in her bear- 
ing quite new to him. Yet Jessie was quivering inwardly, 
half-awed by the brown-faced, dark-eyed man who seemed so 
much older, graver, and more imposing than the half- wayward 
lad who cried so bitterly at their parents’ death. The memory 
of the storm he had passed through seemed graven on his 
face. She remembered, when she looked at him, that he had 
won the Victoria Cross. 

Each had much to forgive and be forgiven, they called to 
mind in that first glance ; but by the time the door had closed 
behind her, Jessie was once more the little sister he had loved 
and protected all his life, and Philip the strong kind brother 
she had looked up to and loved, and both felt the strength of 
the tie between them as one that neither time nor circum- 
stances could ever break. 

“ Jessie, Jessie ! my poor kitten ! ” Philip cried, taking the 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


317 


thin face in his hands, after they had been together for a lit- 
tle while, “why didn’t you tell me all from the first? This 
should never have happened. If I had but known.” 

She did not reply. Her golden head drooped upon his 
shoulder, where she rested like a tired child, her eyes veiled 
by their downward drooping fringes, her features calm with 
an ineffable repose. The bright momentary flush had faded 
from her cheek, leaving it marble pale, and there were violet 
shadows about her beautiful mouth that told a terrible tale 
and caused an icy fear to creep about his heart. 

“ You were so far away,” sighed Jessie, after some time, 
“ and I could not make you understand.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


AT REST. 

A week after the finding of Jessie there was a marriage in 
a London church, in the presence of Sir Arthur Medway, and 
Jim, and Canon and Mrs. Medway. No eloquence could pre- 
vail upon Cousin Jane to appear at her ward’s marriage. The 
proceedings, she averred, were not in accordance with Wood 
ways ; her needful consent, with that of Mr. Cheeseman, was 
most reluctantly given. A tall, thickly-veiled lady saw the 
wedding from a gallery. As the ceremony went on the veil 
was incautiously raised, and the bridegroom, looking up at a 
very solemn moment, was startled to see in the passion-pale 
face the well-known features of the Marchioness of Bardexter. 
When the names were being signed in the vestry, Jessie 
turned to Mr. Ingleby, drew his face down, and kissed him. 
“ Good-by,” she said, “you have been a good friend. I shall 
never forget your kindness, or Miss Ingleby’s ; please give my 
love to her.” 

“And the unkindness, Jessie?” he asked, in a voice inau- 
dible to others. 

“ I remember none,” she replied, smiling, “ dear Miss In- 
gleby was always good to me. And if she ever showed dis- 
pleasure, it was just, very just and right.” On hearing which 
afterward Miss Ingleby burst into teals, to her brother’s infi- 
nite surprise and satisfaction. 

Philip stood on the church steps and watched the carriage 
which bore Claude and Jessie roll away ; he was now alone in 
the world, and yet he was nearer to Jessie now than he had 
ever been before. 

He went back to the Maynards, chiefly that he might have 
the opportunity of looking at a chalk drawing, which was a 
fair, though he thought, very unflattering and inadequate 
likeness of their niece, Ada. He w r as clever in leading up to 
references to “ our niece, Ada,” though he never mentioned 
her. This Mrs. Maynard thought singular, since anecdotes 
of every other member of the family, including the mongoose 
and the bear, were frequent. Perhaps it was a sense of jus- 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


319 


tice that led Mrs. Maynard to supply this deficiency by many 
allusions to the neglected niece and continual dwelling upon 
her virtues and attractions, to which Philip listened with a 
polite forbearance that did him credit, and afforded some di- 
version to the kind-hearted lady. 

Having written to Miss Maynard to tell her of his fruitless 
search for Jessie, and unexpected finding of a father in the 
course of that search, he considered that he ought now to in- 
form her of the marriage, a duty that was all the more easy, 
if not more pleasant, because of the impassable barrier that 
fatal father of his had placed between them. The world 
seemed less empty when his conscience had warned him of 
this duty, and he had resolved to perform it, and he by no 
means slighted the dishes upon the Maynard’s luncheon 
table, or failed to laugh at the Canon’s gentle jokes. He was 
thinking of some people sitting at tiffin under a punkah in a 
large Indian room, with windows and doors shut to keep out 
the blazing heat, and wondering if one of them was growing 
pale with the hot weather, and if she could muster appetite 
for anything more soiid than a watermelon. That eligible 
civilian was not in the habit of dropping in for tiffin, he re- 
membered with a certain pleasure. 

“ Oh, but I must go now, Mrs. Maynard,” he said, more 
than an hour later, for about the fifth time, and using the 
name for pure love of its sound and associations, “ I promised 
to meet Sir Arthur Medway on business at four.” 

This meeting was to take place at his father’s chambers, 
whither he repaired quickly on leaving the Maynard^. On 
his way he drew a document from his pocket and read it 
carefully in the cab, taking notes as he read. It was no less 
an instrument than the last, the very last, will and testament 
of Sir Claude Medway/ Baronet, properly drawn up in legal 
phraseology and handwriting and duly signed, sealed, and 
witnessed by competent witnesses. The existence of the will 
had of course been known, but as it was not forthcoming- 
after Sir Claude’s death it was supposed to have been re- 
pented of and destroyed by him. But during the legal 
arrangements consequent on Claude’s marriage, a great rum- 
maging of documents had taken place, and the missing will 
had turned up in the secret spring drawer of a desk that Sir 
Arthur had used almost daily at Marwell. On leaving the 
church after the marriage Sir Arthur handed it to Philip to 
read and return to him in the afternoon. 

Philip found his father very low and fretful ; nothing 
pleased him, the toy soldiers were thrown at people’s heads, 


320 


IJY THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


the draught-board was flung aside with piteous howls, only 
the fruit he brought was tolerated. This was snatched and 
snarled over. 

Philip sat down and looked on at this unlovely spectacle 
with a curious mixture of pit} r and disgust. How could this 
creature be his father ? He felt no kinship with him ; might 
there, after all, be some mistake ? He could not trace the 
family likeness in the face before him, wherein the animal 
had effaced the spiritual, whence all fine lines and noble curves 
had disappeared. What had this face been in youth, he won- 
dered, contrasting it with that of Sir Arthur. The twin 
brothers were scarcely sixty, younger than Matthew Meade 
at his death, but what a difference ? Matthew’s mind and 
Martha’s, too, had wandered at the last, but how nobler ! 
Their last words were never to be forgotten, though Jessie 
had now convinced him that the words of betrothal in her 
father’s last joining of their hands ought never to have been 
taken literally. Never could he be grateful enough for Mat- 
thew and Martha Meade in place of this terrible parent. 

It was a strange spectacle, he thought, a convicted criminal, 
one of society’s failures. Yet what could society do more for 
any man than it had done for this one, a member of the 
criminal classes, but a favorite of fortune, bred in a refined 
home. Trained in the best schools of the country, breathing 
an atmosphere of culture from the cradle — whence came the 
moral taint ? 

Presently Sir Arthur arrived and stood beside his miserable 
brother, who did not recognize him, and only acknowledged 
his entrance by covering the fruit before him with his hand. 
Sir Arthur, a typical English gentleman, carrying his sixty 
years with easy grace, handsome, dignified, serene, though 
bearing the record of heavy sorrows on his face, was a strik- 
ing contrast to the degraded husk of humanity beside him, 
whose identity had once been confused with his. The last 
action of the old man revolted Philip and his uncle to such 
an extent that each turned simultaneously from the sorry 
sight, and Philip rose and leant against the chimney-piece, 
beneath which a fire was burning, hot as the weather was, in 
deference to the old man’s whim. 

“What about this will?” Philip asked, abruptly, “is any- 
one but myself affected by it?” 

Sir Arthur smiled pathetically. “The loss of Marwell 
Court and the lands pertaining to it in some slight measure 
affects myself and my children,” he replied. 

“ I meant,” Philip amended, “ are the other provisions, lega- 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


321 


cies, annuities, and so on, the same as in the earlier will which 
has been acted upon ? ” 

“ Quite the same, your grandfather’s intention in this will 
was to restore you to your original position of heir of Har- 
well Court, nothing more.” 

“Harwell Court ! Harwell ! ” muttered Algernon ; “that’s 
mine, I say, mine ! ” 

“Have you shown this will to your lawyers? ” Philip con- 
tinued, not heeding the old man’s babble. 

“Not yet. I shall put it into their hands to-night. 
Claude has seen it, no one else, not even her ladyship ! ” 

“ And the executors are all dead, and the witnesses too ? ” 
continued, Philip, idly stirring the fire and making a great 
cavern in the heart of it. 

“ Yes, but there would be no difficulty in proving it. The 
lawyer who made it is still living. Give it into the hands of 
your ow T n lawyers if you like.” 

“ Who is the legal owner of a will ? ” he asked, enlarging 
his cavity in the fire. 

“ Upon my soul, Philip, that is a question that never oc- 
curred to me before,” he replied. “I am no lawyer and cannot 
tell.” He moved as he spoke and stood between Philip and 
his father, so that when Philip turned from the fire into 
which he had been gazing, he did not see the contortions of 
Algernon Hedway’s face in his vain attempts to speak. 

“ Possession is nine points of the law,” he said, quickly 
drawing the paper from his pocket and plunging it into the 
burning cavity, where it was consumed almost immediately, 
being held down by the poker. “ The will is therefore 
mine, Harwell Court yours in all justice. I was not bred to 
own property of this kind, and want it no more than I am fit 
for it. So that’s done, we are as we were.” 

“ How ? What ? Upon my honor ! ” exclaimed Sir Arthur. 
“ Ho you know what you have done ? ” 

“Burnt the will,” he replied, smiling at Sir Arthur’s vain 
attempts to rescue the fluttering ash into which the paper had 
burnt. 

“I think that you have committed a crime. I have some 
vague apprehension that this is felony,” murmured his un- 
cle, in a dazed way. “ Harwell is yours by right. I always 
had some compunction about it, and now the will of heav- 
en ” 

“ Has put an end to the doubt,” returned Philip. “ Uncle 
Arthur, I can claim no inheritance from him ; it was as his son 
I was to have it I will stand or fall on my own foundation.” 

21 


322 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


He was interrupted by a sound, half groan, half cry. Sir Ar- 
thur started, turned, to see his brother, who was propped in a 
chair, fall forward upon the table in front of him. The con- 
versation, touching as it did early memories, which are the 
last to die when mind dissolves, had roused him to thought 
to which he was unequal. When Philip lifted the sunken 
head he saw that his father was dead, and in the sudden rush 
of pain and pity that overcame him at the sight he knew that 
the miserable creature had been dear to him. 

“ Thank God ! ” gasped Sir Arthur ; but he was moved too, 
seeing the old likeness to himself steal over the features ns 
the stained soul’s impress left them and they settled into the 
calm majesty of death. 

“I am not superstitious,” Claude said to Jessie, to whom 
he related the story afterward, “ but I wish it had not hap- 
pened on our wedding day ! ” 

They were in Suffolk, in a very quiet out-of-the-way spot on 
the coast. Perfect quiet had been prescribed for Jessie, whose 
health was severely shaken by the long months of privation 
and mental suffering, and perfect quiet soon brought the 
color back to her face, and happiness filled her eyes with a 
soft radiance. Then they went up the Rhine to Switzerland, 
and here it became evident that she must rest to recover her 
lost strength. But she was not ill, Claude maintained, with 
pathetic insistence, she did not even suffer pain ; all the 
doctors pronounced her free from organic disease, and suffer- 
ing only from nervous exhaustion. Then she took a chill and 
was laid up with some lung trouble, from which she soon 
rallied. Still a warm climate was advised for the winter, 
and that gave a delightful opportunity of entering the Holy 
Land of art, the Italy for which Jessie longed, and which she 
could not enter till the autumn because of the storm of war 
then sweeping over it. 

Even after Solferino Claude had not considered it safe to 
travel, but the peace of Zurich brought such a lull in the 
tempest that was to wake again later and purge Italy of foes 
and false friends, and set her up among the nations, that they 
went to the Riviera, meaning to go on to Africa in case of 
disquiet in Italy. So Jessie at last "looked upon the Mediter- 
ranean, that beautiful sea whose waters are an inverted and 
intensified heaven, whose islands are paradises, whose shores 
are fragrant with the most precious associations of history 
and literature. 

Here she might sit for long hours in the sunshine, breath- 


Itf THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


323 


ing balmiest air, sweet with flower scents, listening to the 
music of Claude’s voice as he read or talked, or telling him 
the things she saw as she looked upon the tideless sea, gay 
with ruddy-brown lateen sails and crossed by great ships 
from many lands. She saw Phoenician traders and Bom an 
galleys float upon the sunny sea westward, crusaders sailing 
eastward, rich merchant ships from Genoa and Venice, pirates 
and slavers from Africa, the bark w T recked upon the island of 
Melita, a strange and motley procession. She saw the heroes 
sailing to Troy, and Ulysses returning after many years to 
his island home, unhurt by sirens, sea monsters, sea perils, or 
barbarous outlandish peoples. Then she saw him finally sail- 
ing westward in the track of the sinking sun, away, away to 
the mystic, unknown, happy Islands. This vision had the 
greatest charm for her. Perhaps she loved those old Greek 
heroes so much because Claude had introduced them to her 
through well-chosen translations which he read aloud. 

“ Some day you might paint the last voyage of Ulysses,” he 
said to her, but Jessie made no reply ; she seemed too lan- 
guid to paint, and only once roused herself to sketch the view 
from their windows, blue sea with a mountainous promontory 
running into it in the distance, a solemn olive-grove in the 
middle distance, a lofty stone pine in the foreground, its 
broad flat crest traced upon the dark blue sea. 

There was much speculation in the neighborhood of Mar- 
well as to whether Mrs. Medway would venture to appear at 
Mar well Court ; if people would call upon her ; how the awk- 
wardness of the Bedwoods connection would be got over, 
whether she would have the audacity to be presented next 
spring. Or rather, would Captain Medway be foolish enough 
to risk a refusal? For how' could a runaway like Jessie be 
tolerated at an immaculate court ? Thus the local mind was 
distracted by pleasing doubt. 

But though Jessie had not been to Marwell, Lady Gertrude, 
with pious resignation to the inevitable, had visited her 
daughter-in-law, in whose face she had read something which 
in some measure consoled her for the irreparable disaster of 
the marriage, and the two ladies corresponded, and there was 
further some question of sending Ethel out to be near them 
for the winter. 

But early in December, Jessie became very anxious for 
Philip to join them, and he accordingly got a month’s leave 
and came. 

The afternoon of his arrival Tvas a very happy one. The 
sky was clear, the warm sunshine brought out the rich tints 


324 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


of the mountain wall which sheltered them from the winter 
winds, and Jessie, who was sitting in a sunny nook of the 
garden, caught sight of him in the distance and came smiling 
down the vine-trellised walk to meet and welcome him. She 
moved with such grace, held herself so well, her color was 
so vivid, and her eyes so full of light, that Philip could not 
think of her as an invalid, and bantered her as a malingerer. 
She laughed like a child as she led him to her sunny nook, 
where the three sat and chatted till the early winter sunset 
was imminent, and they went in to a welcome wood fire. 
There they spoke of death incidentally, and Philip said how 
intensely he hated it and how much he longed to live and act. 
But Jessie thought it would be pleasant to “cease upon the 
midnight with no pain.” “Life was so very tiring,” she 
added. 

“ Oh, Jessie !” Claude cried with sudden sharpness ; “how 
cruel ! How could you leave me ? ” 

She burst into tears. “I cannot,” she replied, “I cannot. 
That makes it so hard.” 

“Jessie is a little morbid, Philip,” her husband said, 
apologetically ; “she has had a tiring day, else she would not 
talk like this. It is only hysteria,” he added, with a quiver 
in his voice which went to Philip’s heart. 

Next morning Jessie did not leave her room ; she had had 
a bad night and was tired. It was nothing unusual, Claude 
added, cheerfully. Philip was very much disturbed by 
the intelligence, and set out happily for a long mountain 
walk, returning early in the afternoon to find her up and 
ready to talk to him. 

They sat by the sunny open window in the salon and talked 
again, Jessie in an easy chair, languid but cheerful. Claude 
walked up and down in the flower-garden outside to have a 
cigar, and looked in upon them from time to time, and smiled 
to hear them talking of their father and mother, and recalling 
long-forgotten incidents of their childhood. 

“I am so glad you came, Phil,” Jessie said, with a sigh 
of intense happiness, “I could never fully enjoy anything 
without you.” 

Then Claude finished his cigar and joined them, and they 
laughed over Sarah’s refusal of the income that had been 
offered her and Abraham. She couldn’t do without a dairy, 
and was sure Abraham would go silly with nothing to do but 
look forward to dinner time, she averred ; besides she knew 
that no one else could do properly for Mrs. Plummer, or put 
up with her tongue. Then they talked of the Italian crisis. 


IJSf THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


325 


of Garibaldi’s attempts to stir up the cities, and of the great 
hopes that were throbbing at the nation’s great heart. That 
led on to the war just ended, thence to the Mutiny and the 
Crimea, and war in the abstract, and finally to the hope of 
ultimate peace as the consummation to which all these tragic 
wars might be tending. 

In the meantime the beautiful prospect with its accurate 
level line sharply dividing sky from sea, with its purple- 
shadowed mountain spur, its hoary olive and gleaming orange- 
gardens glowed in the warm light before them, dainty rose 
scents and heavier tuberose and narcissus perfumes stole in 
on the sunny air, bees hummed about the fiowers, the voices 
and laughter of the people passing in the road sounded 
pleasantly, the low murmur of the sea went on in hushed 
moments when silence fell upon the three, and the sun went 
down in great glory, in a splendor that filled them with awe. 
The dusk, lighted by the hearth-light, was pleasant too. 
Claude drew closer to Jessie, who gradually became silent. A 
full moon rose and threw its silver glory upon the peaceful 
waves, the two men talked on in low voices on large, lofty 
subjects. Jessie’s head slipped from the easy chair to 
Claude’s shoulder ; Philip saw it in the white moonlight. 
“ She is asleep,” he said, and stole softly away, noiselessly 
replenishing the sinking fire as he went. 

He had just closed the door when a sharp, quick cry from 
within called him back, to see Claude bending over Jessie’s 
drooping head and pale sweet face, with blank despair written 
on his own. 

“ She is gone,” he said, with the tragic solemnity of a grief 
beyond expression. 

Philip stood by him in the white moonlight, half dazed, in- 
credible. But there was no mistaking the helpless droop of 
the lightly set head, or the unutterable peace of the beautiful 
face. The blue eyes would no more look tenderly in theirs, 
or the sweet lips smile upon them again. 

One might have thought the clear moon was shining on a 
group of sculpture, the two men gazed so silently and immov- 
ably upon the figure that rested in such unbreaking repose- be- 
fore them. 


CHAPTER XYI. 


BEREAVAL. 

It was not long before Philip found some relief in an out- 
burst of grief, but Claude remained calm. He knew in that 
moment of exceeding anguish that he had long known hope 
to be dead, sudden and unexpected though the end was. The 
seeds of death, he well knew, as Jessie did, though neither of 
them dared confess it, and though the doctors only hinted at 
danger, had been sown in that winter of privation and mental 
pain, fostered by those final days and nights of wandering in 
London. He knew it and accepted the inevitable doom, with 
the awful, acquiescent grief which is “ a solemn scorn of ills.” 

“I am glad that you came,” he said, gently, even tenderly, 
as he led Philip from the chamber that had suddenly become 
a sanctuary ; “ she was so fond of you. She will hunger no 
more,” he added, gliding unconsciously into Biblical phrase, 
“neither will she suffer any more pain.” 

He came with a bleeding heart to look upon the woman he 
had slain, when she was arrayed for the last chill, solemn 
bridals. He thought of what he had done to blast the sweet 
flower before him, and of what might have been for one so 
young, so lovely, and so highly gifted, if he had never crossed 
her path. Strange, very strange, and terrible, even incredi- 
ble, it was that those beautiful lips did not part, as sometimes 
he felt they must, to answer the agonizing thoughts of his 
heart ; that the fringed eyelids did not open when he was so 
near and so sorely needing the deep love-light darkened for- 
ever in the veiled blue eyes. That she should be wrapped 
in that shroud of chill, unbreaking silence was so awful, so 
intolerable— yes, and so just ; for it was his owm 'work. 

When he entered the darkened salon, the room which but 
yesterday was bright with her living presence, and in which 
she now lay pale in her white draperies among white roses 
and orange-blossom, he placed a palm-leaf in the clasped 
white hands, not touching them. When he looked upon the 
soft repose of the sweet face, he could not believe that she 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


327 


was really dead ; a slight droop of her golden head gave her 
such a life-like air; she seemed to smile as if welcoming him : 
he was moved to kiss her. It was not so much that the lips 
gave no response to the passionate pressure, as it was the 
icy, soul-penetrating chill that startled him to a short, sharp 
cry and made him shudder away from the quiet, unheeding 
form. That indeed was the sharpness of death, the intoler- 
able sting of it, that icy immovable indifference, that awful 
impenetrable calm in lips so lately warm with a young 
wife’s passion and eloquent with pure deep feeling and noble 
thought. If she could but speak one word, one last word of 
forgiveness ! He could not remember the very last word she 
had spoken, he could only recall the gentle tenor of her con- 
versation in those golden hours, and the occasional low, sweet, 
happy laughter, the delight in the beauty that “ almost makes 
one afraid,” as she said of the sunset. The still and solemn 
beauty of the once mobile features awed him ; the pity of it 
smote to his heart ; such high majesty was so unnatural in a 
face so young, a face made to be bright with love and laugh- 
ter, radiant with health and joy. He thought he saw some 
trace of her mortal anguish beneath the serene peace she 
wore, a faint memory fraught with such pathos as belongs 
to instruments of martyrdom in pictures of beatified saints. 
Jessie had indeed won the palm lying green upon her breast. 

She had fully forgiven, though she could never more tell 
him so. God had forgiven too. But that could not restore 
life and health to her, no penitence would bring the light 
back to her darkened eyes, no regrets could blot out the 
suffering of those lonely months in London. “ If I could 
atone ! ” he groaned ; “Jessie, Jessie ! you know that I would 
have died for you ! ” But he could not ; nor could he atone 
for the waste of this sweet young life or that of another he 
never forgot ; all his life would be penance, the penance of 
blank desolation ; nothing could undo the past. 

It is true that a sweet and awful sense of some divinely, 
eternally purposed atonement, bringing light out of all earth’s 
darkness, brooded dove-like on the stormy waters of his con- 
science, but even that could not restore the beautiful hours 
of golden youth, the achievements of rare talent life held in 
store for her, till he came and shattered the crystal vase of 
promise which held them. u Jessie,” he cried, “ it was I who 
killed you.” The orange-blossom was beginning to droop, 
some white leaves fell as if moved by his anguish from the 
roses in her white hands ; but the breast on which they 
fluttered was not grieved, the soft rise and fall of it was at an 


328 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


end. Hard, hard it was that she should suffer for him ; his 
heart rose against the injustice, he did not feel that being one 
they must share both ill and good. Everywhere he saw the 
innocent suffering for the guilty ; he saw Fanny in her death 
agony — when did he not see Fanny ? he saw the martyred 
innocents entrapped to vice in great cities ; he saw Philip an 
outcast in his babyhood, rescued from beggary by a poor 
man’s charity, branded with a life-long stigma, and abhorring 
his own gentle name ; and a faint vision of the oneness of the 
human race began to gleam upon him, with some feeling of 
the horrible fruitfulness of evil, and the ineffaceable nature 
of human conduct. Yet Jessie did not suffer ; one glance at 
the deep and awed repose in the sweet face rebuked such a 
thought. 


“Tlie wonder was not yet quite gone 
From that still look of hers.” 

Her soul was taking deep draughts of vital joy from the still 
waters of Paradise. She had been guarded that she should 
not take too much hurt from him ; mercy had been about her 
path. Yes, and about his path too. Those last few months, 
every moment of them more precious than water to the dying 
in the desert, had been permitted him ; he could never forget 
their most beautiful and intimate converse, their walking in 
the house of God together ; to have known her was alone a 
regeneration, much less to have loved her. And what had he 
been before he saw her ? He was no more the selfish, good- 
natured, low-thoughted man of the world who saw Jessie in 
her unshadowed youth and beauty beneath the oaken boughs 
on that bright April day not two years gone. She had given 
him a soul, restored him to his real, that is, his best self. 
What ought he to do to live a higher life ? What would she 
wish him to do ? 

We have but one youth, one chance of keeping unspotted 
from the world, and thus making head against the powers of 
darkness banded against us ; we can neyer regain a spotless 
past, or undo the countless evil influences we spread about us 
in an ill-spent youth ; never unsay the cynicisms of other days, 
or uproot the seed that has sprung up and borne fruit in a 
thousand unknown fields. The mass of men can only fight 
negatively in the ranks of the children of light, by ruling their 
lives well ; Savonarolas, St. Francises, Isaiahs are very rare ; 
on the whole, the most valuable deeds of mankind are nega- 
tive. 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


329 


But his after-life was noble, though flowing in obscure chan- 
nels, with silent beneficence, and health- diffusing purity. And 
who may measure the leavening power of one life attuned to 
high ideals ? 

“I can never be happy any more, dear,” he said, addressing 
her, as if her pale and silent presence were still vital ; “ but I 
shall bless the day on which I first saw you, as long as I 
live.’' 

A white rose-bud moved from her hair, borne down by its 
own weight ; things she had said seemed to repeat themselves 
in the still air which had been so lately vibrant with the tones 
of her voice and the low music of her laughter. “Claude, 
Claude,” he almost heard her say as she so often did on wak- 
ing from fitful sleep, “ are you really there ? is it no dream ? ” 

“Ma mie,” he replied once, but his voice sounded hollow 
and strange, charged as it was with tender passion, and echoed 
dyingly through the silent room ; where, oh ! where was that 
which had once thrilled in response to his lightest whisper ? 
“ Can my love never reach you there ? ” It seemed impossible 
that the adored voice had no power to break the lofty calm of 
her stillness ; “ will they shut me out for ever from the holy 
place,' ma mie, ma mie ? ” 

Outside the house, the sunshine, which was to have healed 
her, lay with caressing warmth on the dark rich sea, the pur- 
ple-shadowed mountains, the orange and lemon groves, the 
olives and aloes, the garden she had loved and made lovelier 
by her presence. The brief hours rolled by and the sun 
reached the zenith. Then Philip came and took him away 
for the final rites, surprised to find him calm and reasonable, 
and able to speak of her as if she were still with them. 

“ She was gifted, such an artist, Philip,” he said that even- 
ing, when the earth had closed over her ; “and no one could 
look in her face without being the better for it.” 

Then he showed him a paper in her handwriting, a list of 
small gifts of toys and souvenirs of the places she had seen 
in this first foreign tour, for each of her friends, including a 
porcelain pipe for Abraham, with a message to each friend, 
dated a week back, and showing that sbe knew how near her 
end was. There was also a sealed separate packet for Philip 
and one for her husband, to be opened a week after her death, 
as if she had pictured the increasing ache of bereaval that 
would come to each of them after the first shock had gone by, 
and thus tried to comfort them. 

Then a very noble and tender friendship, which had already 
taken root, grew up and blossomed between Claude and 


330 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


Philip in this common bereavement, which drew them to- 
gether all the more because they shared the loss with no one 
in any great degree. Each could speak of Jessie to the other 
and to no one else, each had been loved by her and had 
known her as no one else had done, each had in a different 
degree wronged her and been forgiven. She was a life long 
bond between them, cementing a friendship that never fal- 
tered in all the years to come. 

When the death tidings reached Harwell Court they ex- 
cited mixed feelings in different breasts : Lady Gertrude was 
sufficiently shocked by the suddenness, and touched by the pity 
of Jessie’s early death, to be able to cry with the utmost pro • 
priety, though firmly convinced that nothing better could 
possibly have occurred. Sir Arthur in his secret heart felt 
that it was well, but Jessie’s young pathetic beauty and sin- 
gular charm had from the first cast a spell upon him ; he could 
not forget her parting kiss or the clinging of her arms round 
his neck. 

Even Jim Medway hurriedly left the room on hearing the 
telegram read, and when he appeared again, he said that it 
■would make a great change in Hugh’s prospects. “ Claude 
will be awfully cut up, but won’t say much,” lie added, “ only 
you'll see that he’ll never marry again,” which was true. 

“I never did hold with these here telegrams,” Mr. Plum- 
mer said. “ There’s trouble enough with bad harvests and 
war taxes and low prices without making ill news fly faster 
than natural ; which the Lord knows is too fast by long odds.” 

“ I always did say that Matthew Meade would live to repent 
bringing her up as he did,” Cousin Jane complained to her 
pocket handkerchief. “Nobody can’t say I didn’t -warn him,” 
she added with a sob. 

“ But he didn’t live, you foolish woman ! ” growled her 
husband, grieved to the extent of contradicting. 

“ How ever anybody could expect him to live, with infor- 
mation in his chest and mustard poultices, and me sitting up 
all night with him ?” she retorted. 

“ Ah, to be sure, I reckon that was enough to kill any man 
without any information in his chest,” her husband returned, 
grimly. “ Well, there ! the best goes first ! ” 

“ Who’d ever have thought Nat would take on like that ? ” 
Cousin Jane thought to herself when he went out of the room, 
angrily banging the door, “ and he without a drop of Wood 
blood in him. But Plummer always had a feeling heart ; T\e 
always said that for him, for all lie’s that aggravating to li/e 
with. And her ways was taking, and men never thinks a 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


331 


pretty face can go wrong — without they marry one, and then 
they find out fast enough. Well ! there ! I was fullish over 
the child myself, and cried for her when she run away, as 
though she a been a sister’s child at least. To be sure, it was 
providential I thought the plum-colored silk would fly and 
bought the black instead, and some say bugles are worn. 
She died a baronet’s daughter-in-law, when all’s said and 
done, and nobody can say I don’t know what’s right to wear 
for cousins. What are we but worms ? The merino’ll turn 
for work adays ; it’s a pity I can’t give the crape another wear, 
but Sir Arthur might think it a liberty. The deaths I’ve 
seen ! Plummer’s of a full habit and hot-tempered, he may 
go off any day. There’s a poor few left besides to wear crape 
for, dear, dear, and Jessie not nineteen ! We mustn’t run out 
again the ways of Providence. I’m sure there’s mercies 
enough with me spared from day to day, that might go off 
any minute.” 

Koger said nothing ; he went on into the empty cow stable, 
and leant against the loft ladde* with his hands in his pockets 
and his eyes fixed on the straw-litter, which was touched by a 
bar of frosty sunshine, for an hour. Once or twice he drew 
the back of his hand across his eyes, but no one ever knew 
what his thoughts were. 

Sarah sat down in the midst of her work by the kitchen 
fire with her apron over her head. After a while, she re- 
moved the apron and went into the dairy and scrubbed her 
pans and pails, pausing occasionally to dash away the tears 
which bedewed her labors. A cat lapped cream before her 
eyes, and on being discovered was quietly removed and 
turned out of doors without rebuke. Sarah would never 
more take such pride in the whiteness of her wooden pails 
and the lustre of their steel bands. There would be less 
pleasure in giving Mr. Plummer full change for her verbal 
coin, or detecting “ the girl ” in innumerable delinquencies ; 
and when the pleasant spring days came again there would 
be less music in the singing of birds and a loss of sweetness 
in the flowers. 

“Poor missie’s gone, Abram,” she sighed, when her hus- 
band came clattering heavily in over the flags, a pail of freez- 
ing water in each hand. 

He set down the pails with a clash, “Gone dead?” he 
asked, after a time. 

“Gone dead. ’Twas a hrapid decline.” 

He took up his pails again after another long and silent 
pause and set them in their place. Then he removed the yoke 


332 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


from liis shoulders and stumped heavily out of the dairy with- 
out a word to his wife. 

“Wold master and missus was terble zet on she,” he mut- 
tered to himself. 

He went into the barn, took up his flail and began to 
thresh. But he grasped the handsel in a half-hearted way and 
brought down the zwingel without his usual dash, thinking, 
in a dim sort of way, that sunshine would never again have 
the old pleasant warmth or a cup of mild ale the old savor 
and cheer. 

“ Terble set on she,” he repeated, after half-an-hour’s steady 
thud, thud of the flail. 

So it was all over. And a few days after the funeral, 
Philip turned away from the new grave in the English ceme- 
tary aud walked slowly out into the sunny road with a full 
heart and dim eyes. He leaut on a low stone-wall, in the 
crannies of which sweet violets were blooming and near which 
bees hummed contentedly about a bush of white heather, and 
gazed out over the orange and* olive groves and oriental aloes 
and carobs, upon the sunlit sea. 

He was almost sorry and yet he was glad that Jessie had 
not known what he lost by coming home to her. She could 
never know now what now, he had not fully known till now, 
himself, how very dear she had been and what a terrible 
blank she left in his life. And how should he answer to 
Matthew Meade for that fresh, unturfed grave? He had been 
loyal to the letter of that dying charge, but not to its spirit. 
He ought to have given more heed to her letters and seen the 
true meaning of her discontent ; it was partly stupidity, but 
more prejudice, the invincible prejudice of those cut and 
dried arbitrary conventions that men have invented concern- 
ing women. He had never thought of Jessie as a reasoning 
being with passions and spiritual needs, and a distinct mould 
of character of her own, but as a tender, unreasoning, cling- 
ing thing to be moulded to his own form at will. “ And now 
my house was left unto him desolate,” he thought, looking 
over the sea with a deep intent gaze, as one who is ques- 
tioning the hidden future. 

He would be alone all his life ; even if he could forget Ada, 
he would ask no woman to share the stigma on his birth. 
Ada, of course, would marry ; and in the years to come he 
might know her and become her friend. Her children might 
even learn to cling about him ; she would teach them to 
respect him as a man who stood or fell by his own strength, 
and scorned to climb by any ignoble way. 


IN TUE HEART OF THE STORM. 


333 


His heart was full of Ada, as indeed it always was ; his 
thoughts fluttered away from sad retrospect, as they were wont 
to rest in the unforgotten charm of her presence. If a peas- 
ant girl stepped gracefully down the hillside with her basket 
of olive-roots poised lightly upon her head, something in the 
proud carriage of the head, some lustre in the girl’s dark eyes, 
a stray sunbeam on the rippling darkness of her hair, any 
touch of beauty was as an echo or reflection from Ada. He 
pictured her on the sea-ward slope beneath the solemn olives 
below, delighting in the soft sunny beauty of the Italian 
winter and loving the clear brilliance of the blue sea, till it 
would have been no surprise to hear her speak, a breathing 
reality and no dream. 

The sun was sinking toward the vast breadth of soft blue- 
ness, rose-hued cloudlets were fluttering like winged angels 
in the glowing orange sky ; he turned, the better to see the 
splendor, and there, coming out of the sunset glory toward 
him, was Ada herself. 


CHAPTER XVII 

SUNSET. 

The sunset splendors glowed behind her, she appeared to 
be descending toward him out of the very heart of the western 
glory as she had come to him first from the heart of the war- 
storm ; she came with firm, light steps over a path of incandes- 
cent gold, with the accustomed proud poise of the head, her 
face shadowed by the contrast with the glow behind and 
around her, her dark eyes full of light ; his face was turned to 
the glory whence she came, it seemed made of light, doubly 
transfigured by the setting sun, and the vivid joy that flashed 
through him at the sweet apparition. In a moment he had 
met her, taken her hands and was standing speechless face to 
face with her. Both hearts beat quickly, but there was no sur- 
prise in Ada’s face. 

“ You did not expect to meet me ? ” she asked, after a little 
pause. 

“ No ; I never expect to meet you ; but when things are bad, 
when the storm is at the worst, you always appear, an angel 
of comfort.” 

“ A loyal friend, I hope,” she replied, gently ; “the first time 
we were dancing, and the news of your mother’s fatal illness 
came ” 

“ Yes, but you were my comfort, even then. And now ” 

“I wish I could comfort you now. We arrived two days 
before. I am with an aunt whose lungs are weak. You know 
— perhaps you didn’t know ? We came home in the autumn. 
Father has retired. Yes, we actually saw her — how lovely she 
was ! strolling in the garden. Oh ! it must have been such a 
shock, though, of course, you knew there was no hope.” 

“ And now you are here, it is like a sudden glimpse of heaven 
in the darkness. This will be a memory for life,” he replied, 
at last leaving hold of her hands, and turning to walk slowly 
on her way with her, so that the sunset was all behind them, 
and the mountain spur curving out round the broad bay wore 
a garment of glory, its bare, time-worn summit was transmuted 


IH the heart of the storm. 


335 


to burning gold against the lucid sky. “ But is it really your 
living self ? ” he added. “ To come so suddenly, and at the very 
critical moment.” 

“ And now tell me all you wish to tell about this sorrowful 
business, dear Philip. What of poor Captain Medway ? and 
what are you meaning to do ? ” 

“ We go to England to-morrow. How well timed this meet- 
ing is ! Yet, I ought not to see you, I suppose ; though I 
know that you must have forgotten by this time any — kinder 
— any feelings ” 

“ Women, of course, have no constancy, no depth ; they can 
turn on the feelings expected of them at any moment,” she 
answered, with a kind of plaintive disdain. “ No doubt it is 
very improper, but I have not forgotten, I never shall.” 

“ Ah ! but you must, you will,” he cried ; “you must help 
me to do my duty as once before.” 

“ Did I help you ? ” she asked, in a very soft, low voice. “ I 
think you did not need much helping.” 

“You made it easier,” he returned. “ It was hard.” 

She made no rejoinder, her lips were quivering. The soft 
deep lustre of her eyes was bent upon his averted head ; she 
kept back her tears with an effort. The sun was lower now, 
its changing glory clothed both figures with a rosy radiance ; 
in the silence the low caressing murmur of the quiet sea was 
heard from the beach below. 

They had reached a clump of olive-trees, the gnarled gray 
roots of which made a favorite way-side seat, and the massive 
trunks of which, slightly shadowed by the thin dark foliage 
looked like rudely hewn stone pillars. Here Philip proposed 
that they should sit a while. “For we cannot part like this,” 
he added. “ No life must ever be mingled with mine. All my 
life I must be lonely.” 

“ Why ? ” Ada asked. “ Philip, you are morbid. You have 
suffered ; your feeling for honor is keen ; you are over-sensi- 
tive. I know all ; surely it is for me to decide.” 

“ You have a noble heart, a most princely nature. But I 
should indeed be a mean cur to take advantage of your gene- 
rosity and unselfishness.” 

“ No, not generosity, not unselfishness,” she interposed, very 
softly, her eyes w r ere blinded by swift-coming tears. 

“ Dearest,” he added, “ you are very young, you don’t know 
what happiness may be in store for you.” Then he laid his 
case before her and satisfactorily proved his unsuitability from 
every point of view, especially her father’s. “It will be far 
easier to forget that you think,” he said, in conclusion. 


336 


IJV THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


“ Of course,” she returned, with the old princess air ; “you 
needn’t marry me unless you like. I shall not force you into 
it, though you do seem to want a good deal of persuasion. I 
shan’t even break my heart, don’t expect that. But I shall be 
an old maid,” she sighed, looking demurely in his face with 
a quaint sparkle in her bright dark eyes, “ and that is far 
worse than a broken heart, I am told. What comfort is 
it to be wretched, if one can’t talk about it and be cried 
over ? ” 

“ Ada ! ” he exclaimed. 

“I am a most improper person, no doubt,” she replied, 
gravely. “ I shock you, Captain Randal ; I think I had better 
wish you good-evening,” she added, rising and making him 
a little bow before moving sedately away. 

“Good gracious! Ada! What are j t ou thinking of?” he 
cried, overtaking her in a state of utter bewilderment. 

“ Thinking of going home,” she replied, tranquilly. 

“And I going to England to-morrow? For Heaven’s sake 
do stop a moment ! ” 

“Well, but what is the use? You won’t have me, and 
there’s an end of it. I am not going to ask you any more, 
Maharaj Salaam ! ” 

Then of course she was detained, and all kinds of vehement 
protestations, adjurations, and assurances of undying devotion 
poured into apparently indifferent ears. She was induced to 
resume her seat on the olive-roots, her bright face glowing 
like a splendid flower against the rugged, stony-lookiug 
trunks, her dark eyes half-veiled. “ Yes,” she was thinking 
to herself, “it is about time you began. I do think I have 
a right, as a woman, to a little courtship.” 

As for Philip he knew nothing but that Princess Ada was 
permitting her hands to be kissed. 

“This is all very well,” she said at last. “Now perhaps I 
may be allowed to return to my poor sick aunt ? ” 

“ Ada, how can you jest? Do you believe in me ? ” 

“I believe that you are a foolish boy, and don’t know what 
is good for you. From what you say, you can’t exist without 

me,” she returned. “ And yet you won’t ” here she burst 

into a happy little laugh and did not finish her sentence. 
“ Do you know,” she added with a sudden change of manner, 
“ I look on you as a son. I think I adopted you on that first 
night at the ball. Poor boy,” I thought, “ he has no mother 
perhaps by this time. Oh ! I was so sorry for you ! You are 
my father, and my mother, and my son, as the dear Hindoos 
say.” 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 337 

“I am an outcast,” he replied ; gloomily, yet lie remem- 
bered her words at the waterfall, 

“ Father thou art to me, and mother dear, and brother too, 

Kind husband of my heart.” 

“Your people would never hear of it,” he added. 

“ Do you know, Lord Blank is rather fond of me. He is 
a sweet old man, and my godpapa. And Philip, please don’t 
be angry, he knows why you went home in such a hurry. 
You will hear of something soon.” As she said this she 
looked down, a little tremor in her nervously clasped hands. 

“ Even at the very best it would have to be years, Ada ! ” 
he exclaimed, all his heart in his voice. “ And to think of 
your wasting your youth and beauty ” 

“ Growing old and ugly, when of course, you wouldn’t care 
for me any more.” 

“ Ada!” 

“ I suppose you would die for me — they always say that,” 
she added. 

“ Die ? What would I not do ? ” 

“ Well, once you said you would even live for me ” 

“ And I did it, and I shall always, while I live at all.” 

“Yet you won’t wait a little while?” she added, suddenly 
raising her eyes so that the light in them flowed into his 
face. 

“ I have done you wrong,” he replied. “ I did not think any 
woman’s nature could be so constant, so strong. I felt that 
I ought to give you up.” 

“ But I wouldn’t be given up,” she interrupted, her voice 
quivering. “ You shall not be given up. Nothing shall come 
between us.” 

“Since you have chosen unworthy me,” he added, his voice 
trembling into a key of infinite tenderness, “ I will do my 
utmost to justify your choice. I am your knight, your vassal, 
what you will, only yours.” 

The sun had gone down by this time, its last rose-light 
dying away into the track of Ulysses and his companions, 
following them in that mysterious voyage to the unknown 
Happy Islands of which Jessie loved to dream ; some stars 
were already trembling in the clear sky, a faint glow still 
crowned the bare mountain summits, the brightly colored, 
smokeless city at their base, which was a jewel in the sunset, 
had faded to common stone, specked with innumerable sparks 
of light ; the keen chill of the winter night was in the air, it 
22 


338 


IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


was dangerous to linger beneatli the olives. They rose and 
hurried away, parting at the gate of Ada’s temporary home, 
not to meet again for years. 

Stillbrooke Mill stands as of old beside its clear waters, on 
which silver swans glide among the green reflections of over- 
arching trees. But the garden is built over, and the plane 
tree gone, so that the mill seems to be a continuation of the 
street. A railway bridge draw’s a black horizontal bar across 
the tree-tops and strides over the bridge with long, black iron 
compass legs, stepping unconcernedly on green turf or in 
mid-stream, a symbol of the money-getting spirit of the age, 
a spirit that everywhere defaces beauty, ruthlessly on-rushing, 
borne on by the fever of its own mad desire. 

One summer evening some years ago, a train roared out of 
Cleeve station and over this bridge at low speed, bearing in 
one of its carriages a general officer in full dress returning 
from a review, a beautiful dark-eyed woman with rich, black 
hair highly silvered, a lad of fifteen, and a girl of eleven. The 
latter, having tossed oft* her own gala hat, was crowning her 
brown curls with the white-plumed cocked hat that lay on the 
seat beside her, her brother had taken the unbuckled sword- 
belt and w r as drawing the sword slowly from its sheath, and 
feeling its edge. 

‘‘There is the mill, Ada,” the general was saying, “ see the 
man leaning over the half-door. One might think it was 
Matthew himself.” 

He saw it all as in the days of his happy, wholesome boy- 
hood. Matthew and Martha and sunny-haired Jessie w r ere 
moving about as of old. They were never long out of his 
thoughts, and at times were very near to him, living on be- 
yond the bounds of sense and time in that eternity which is 
all round and about us. 

The train passed into the blue distance, ruthlessly straight 
rushing as the democracy it typifies, the mill-wheel hummed 
on as of old, dashing the water in diamonds from its turning 
stair. Strangers dwelt in the mill-house, other children 
watched and wondered at the rolling wheel, and the mystery 
of the inexhaustible water, which flows on forever and never 
lessens. 

So all things change and renew themselves, there is no 
death, only eternity. The water flows to the great sea which 
covers half the earth, it rises on the wings of the sunbeam, 
rides gloriously over the heavens in cloud masses colored by 
purple sunset, descends in rich rains and fragrant dews, and 


m THE HEART OF THE STORM. 


339 


so on again, in endless metamorphosis. We, too, have our 
time to rejoice and sorrow, to love and fear, to doubt and 
struggle, to bloom and fade. But though generation succeeds 
generation and the same willows hear the whispering of 
lovers and see their children and children’s children, and the 
race is perpetually renewed in its eternal round, there is a 
difference. Unlike the water, man has a choice between 
blessing and cursing, he does not pass and “leave not a 
wrack behind ” but a mark and a memory. For each sepa- 
rate man, as well as the whole race, moves onward, though 
often with many a backfall, to one “ far-off divine event” with 
a certain power for a certain season to retard or advance the 
grand final consummation. 










































































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UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY’S 


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Prose Dramas of Henrik Ibsen. 

IN TWO VOLUMES. 

Price per Volume, Cloth, $i.oo; Paper, 50 Cents, 

With Critical and Biographical introduction by EDMUND GOSSE. 


Part I.— Containing : “A Doll’s House,” “The Pillars of Society," 
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Part II. — Containing: “The Lady from the Sea,” “An Enemy of 
Society,” “The Wild Duck,” and “The Young Mens 
League.” 

There is a deep and solemn tone running through all these dramas, 
as though the author were saying, like Hamlet, that the times were 
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It is not easy to classify these dramas, although they fall naturally 
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chiefly because there is no artificiality about them. They are hard, 
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weakness. Ibsen has the courage of his convictions, and does not 
shrink from depicting what he believes to be the natural consequences 
of human conduct. 

NOTICES FROM THE PRESS. 

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Mr. Steuart does not deal in new theories or subtle disquisitions. 
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Really admirable work, bright and readable, sound and sane. The 
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THE SALEM SEER. 


SPIRITUALISM. 

CHAPTERS FROM THE LIFE OF CHARLES H. FOSTER, 

The most celebrated Spiritual Medium of the Nineteenth Century. 

This volume contains some of the best thoughts from the brightest 
minds in the world on Spiritualism, and the peculiar manifestations 
which have been witnessed through Charles H. Foster. 

Thoughts on Another Life. 

Between Two Worlds. 

Whispers from the Other Side. 

Charles H. Foster was a mysterious man. He baffled all. He was 
a puzzling personage. 

Did he bridge the way ? 

Did he know from whence came his power ? 

This book will not only interest the Spiritualist, but will also 
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“WORMWOOD.” 


Marie Corelli, whose “ Romance of Two Worlds ” has been one 
of the most widely read works in the English speaking and reading 
world, has fully sustained her enviable reputation as a brilliant literary 
woman and a deep thinker by the publication of a work which she has 
called “ Wormwood.” 

The work is dedicated to the Absinthe drinkers of Paris, and is 
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She is vivid, dramatic, consistent and forcible in her work, and 
“ Wormwood” can safely be set down as one of the most important 
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LOVELL'S SERIES OF FOREIGN LITERATURE. 


Lovell’s Series of Foreign Literature. 

tHE CHOICEST WORKS OF EUROPEAN CONTINENTAL LITERATURE 
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1, frosbua, a biblical flMcture - By Georg Ebers 

This is a story of the exodus of the Hebrews from the land of 
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There is a deep and solemn tone running through all these 
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of their novelty but for the sake of the philosophy which they 
contain, and to grasp the ideas of an author who is undoubtedly a 
man of genius. 

It is not easy to classify these dramas, although they fall 
naturally into a single class. They differ materially from most 
modern plays, chiefly because there is no artificiality about them. 
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passion and human weakness. Ibsen has the courage of his con- 
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possible. — Chicago Globe. 

This novel commands admiration by the exquisite simplicity of 
its style and its artistic treatment as well as its touching story. — 
Springfield Republican. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

5» trbe Cbief justice By Karl Emil Franzos 

Translated from the French by Miles Corbet. 

The “ Chief J ustice ” is a strong and admirable portrait, and it 
is to be hoped that other novels by the same author will soon be 
translated. — Boston Herald. 

Is a powerful and brilliant story, masterly in its delineation of 
character, and remarkable in the fine skill with which the stirring 
incidents are worked up to their tragic climax. — Boston Gazette. 

The “ Chief Justice ” amply sustains the high opinion already 
formed of the author’s strength in fiction. It is, indeed, a vigorous 
and virile tale, whose ethos is mighty and profound. — Christian 
Union. 

Mr. Gladstone, who has made the fortune of more than one 
book, reviewed it with the most enthusiastic praise, and critics 
everywhere bestowed the highest encomiums upon it. — Albany 
Argus. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


LOVELL’S SERIES OF FOREIGN LITERATURE 


6. iprose 2>ramag of Tbeitrik ‘Ifbsen, f>art 2, 


Containing: “The Lady from the Sea,” “An Enemy of 
Society,” “The Wild Duck,” “ The Young Men’s League.” 

America has lagged a long way behind Europe in realizing 
that the Norwegian dramatist, Ibsen, is a genius. But having at 
last discovered that the rest of the world considers him a great 
writer, we seem to have determined to make up for being belated 
by now talking a great deal about him. — The Nation . 

There is a deal of power in Ibsen. — N. Y. Mail and Express. 

They are sombre and sad, but powerfully conceived and writ 
ten, and decidedly worth reading. — New York Sun. 

The interest of the Christian Union in Ibsen antedates the 
recent development of popular interest in this country and we have 
already said so much about him that it is unnecessary at this time 
to characterize him further. — Christian Union. 

Few, if any, male writers have given us so true or so high a 
conception of womanhood as does Ibsen. — Religio. Philos. Journal. 

To read him is the latest “ craze ” in the literary and semi 
literary worlds. — Public Opinion. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


7. Zhe Bee Of Clubs - By Prince Josef Lubomirsici 

“ The Ace of Clubs ” is really a quite absorbing tale of Russian 
and Siberian life, full of perils, conspiracies and narrow escapes. — • 
Boston Herald . 

“ The Ace of Clubs,” by Prince Josef Lubomirski, is a thrilling 
romar.ee cf Russian and Siberian life. Some cf the scenes are 
intensely dramatic, especially that of the knouting of a Russian 
officer. The life in Siberia is pictured more graphically in this 
novel than in any history known to-day. — Exchange. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


LOVELL’S SERIES OF FOREIGN LITERATURE. 


8. jfantas\? 


By Matilde Serao 


The novel “Fantasy,” recently issued by the United States 
Book Company, is the work which made the reputation of its 
author, Matilde Serao. The novel has been translated from the 
Italian by Henry Harland (Sidney Luska),and the idealistic realism 
of the author has been rendered in a masterly manner. So much 
is often lost in translation thaba thoroughly well translated work of 
merit is sure of wide and grateful acceptance by the reading 
public. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

0. Sctltlt By Armando Palacio Valdes 

It would be impossible in the space of a single volume to 
convey a clearer idea of life in Madrid and society life in particular, 
than will be obtained by reading this, the latest from the pen of the 
most prominent of all modern Spanish novelists. The dialogue is 
particularly bright and sparkling, the characters are sharply defined, 
and the translation is excellent. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 



THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 

By KUDYARD KIPLING 

Original edition, 190 pages, paper cover, . $ <25 

Revised and enlarged edition, 250 pages, cloth, gilt, 1.25 

I think the careful revision and arrangement of a novel by its 
author after he has read it in print, and can therefore consider it more 
maturely than when preparing his manuscript for serial publication is a 
tribute to his art, and not at all a derogation from it. — Louise C. MouL 
ton in Boston Herald. 

Apart from the question of its diverse endings, “ The Light That 
Failed” exhibits power, freshness, wonderful deecriptive talent and a 
rare stock of knowledge concerning out-of-the-way matters and things- 
— N Y. Tri'une. 

Whether in the original or the expanded form the work is a notable 
one. It is all fresh wuth nothing hackneyed about it. The characters 
are all original, and in the enlarged edition there are some descriptions 
which will not soon be forgotten. — Tacoma Globe. 

His force and originality have taken the world by storm. “ The 
Light that Failed” is this brilliant author’s first novel. It is his com- 
prehension cf the inner and outer life of men, and his ability to portray 
both, is the secret of Kipling’s powder. — Epoch. 

In “The Light that Failed” you have a great deal more than a 
padded short story. You have a carefully elaborated study cf two 
characters from childhood to mature years. There are long gaps 
between the crises of every life which can be briefly chronicled because 
they represent monotonous work and endurance. They are the very 
warp of life: It is the woof which Kipling gives in his stories. — Droch 
in Life. 

His power of bringing a scene vividly before the reader in a few 
brief sentences, is something remarkable.—~ZV«£rr Republican. 

The vigor, the glow, the habit of acute observation, the salient 
features of Kipling’s prose, appear here in a marked degree. — Philadel- 
phia Ledger. 

The Chicago News .says of the description of the fight in the 
Soudan in Kipling’s novel, “ The Light that Failed,” that “ Kipling is 
the only writer, living or dead, who could have written it.” 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

P. O. Box. 1992, 7>2 to T c;o Wop.th St., New York. 


LOVELL’S OCCULT SERIES. 


U ZTbe JBIogsom anD Z be ffrutt - By Mabel Collins 

This story is wild in theme and rhapsodical in treatment, and 
was evidently inspired by the prevailing theosophical mania. It 
has enough and to spare of mystery and horror, of magic, of starry 
spirits, visions and airy elements ; but it is not without a certain 
power in conception and skill in treatment. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

2» Dreams anft 2>team Stories By Anna (Bonus) Kingsford 

The author, if the sources cf these stories be exactly as set 
forth by her, certainly has a remarkable faculty for dreaming 
extraordinary things, of which not the least strange are the lucid 
stories that her sleep brings forth. Her book is peculiarly inter- 
esting reading. Although these narratives are not supposed to be 
conscious efforts of the imagination, there is no want of coherence 
in their action, nor is there any striking incongruity of detail. 
These tales are interesting to students of occultism and kindred 
subjects. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

3. Zbc UMIgrim anD tbe Shrine - by Edward Maitland 

“The Pilgrim and the Shrine,” by Edward Maitland, is a 
remarkable book giving the experience of one who breaks away 
from all received dogmas and accepts faith and finds a new religion 
in the idea that self-knowledge is the only true knowledge, and that 
the only sin against God is sin against ourselves. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

4. /Iftagic— 1 Mbtte an& JBIacft • By Franz Hartmann, M.D. 

“ Magic — White and Black,” by Franz Hartmann, M.D., is a 
recent issue in Lovell’s Occult Series. The work is one in which 
deep thought and a wonderful insight into the intricate workings of 
human life is shown, and the lover of occult literature cannot fail to 
find here topics of absorbing interest, while every thinking man 
must see the sound reasoning cf a brilliant mind. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


LOVELL’S OCCULT SERIES. 


ft. TOe perfect TRUa# 

By Edward Maitland and Anna (Bonus) Kingsford 

It is based on the fact that the faith of Christendom is lan- 
guishing on account of a radical defect in the method of its presen- 
tation, through which it is brought into perpetual conflict with 
science, the author's endeavor being to harmonize the two by placing 
the plane of religious belief, not where the Church has hitherto 
placed it, but in man’s own mind and heart. 

The manner of presentation is interesting, and the construction 
convincing. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


6. TRelncarnatfott - - - By E. D. Walker 

“Reincarnation,” by the late E. D. Walker, is an exhaustive 
treatise on the subject, tracing and quoting authorities in a com- 
prehensive and lucid manner at once interesting and free from any 
detail and tiresome quotations in the text. An appendix carefully 
prepared, gives reference to similar works in other languages, and 
the work is also carefully indexed. This edition is printed from 
plates which were revised and corrected at the author’s solicitation 
but a few days before his unfortunate death. 

S 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

7. tf&^I of tbe TMbite Xotug - By Mabel Collins 

and Epitome of Theosophical Teachings and Esoteric 
Theosophy. 

“ The Idyll of the White Lotus,” which has been so popular in 
both England and America in expensive binding, has been issued in 
this series, together with an Epitome of Theosophical Teachings by 
Wm. Q. Judge. “The Idyll of the White Lotus ” is a prose poem 
of wonderful strength, breathing an atmosphere of sublime philoso- 
phy at once entertaining, instructive and elevating. 

t l.OTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISPIERS, N. Y. 


Lovell’s International series— Continued. 


No. Cts. 

65. The Firm op Girdlestone. 

A. Conan Doyle 50 

66. In Her Earliest Youth. 

Tasma 50 

67. The Lady Egeria. J. B. 

Harwood 50 

6L A True Friend. A. Sergeant 50 

69. The Little Chatelaine. The 

Earl of Desart 50 

70. Children op To-Morrow. 

William Sharp 30 

71. The Haunted Fountain and 

Hetty’s Revenge. K. S. 
Macquoid 30 

72. A Daughter’s Sacrifice. F. 

C. Philips and P. Fendall. . . 50 

73. Hauntings. Vernon Lee 50 

74. A Smuggler’s Secret. F. 


Barrett 50 

75. Kestell op Greystone. Es- 

me Stuart ; 50 

76. The Talking Image op Urur. 

Fr an z H artm an n , M . D 50 

77. A Scarlet Sin. F. Marryat.. 50 

78. By Order of the Czar. 

Joseph Hatton 50 

79. The Sin of Joost Avelingh. 

Maarten Maartens 50 

80. A Born Coquette. “ The 

Duchess ” 50 

81. The Burnt Million. J. Payn 50 

82. A Woman’s Heart. Mrs. 

Alexander - 50 

83. Syrlin. Ouida 50 

84. The Rival Princess. Justin 

McCarthy and Mrs. C. Praed 50 

85. Blindfold. F Marryat 50 

86. The Parting op the Ways. 

M. Betham Edwards 50 

87. The Failure op Elisabeth. 

E. Frances Poyn ter 50 

88. Eli’s Children. George 


C. Murray and II. Hermann 50 

90. April’s Lady. “The Duchess” 50 

91. Violet Vyvian, M. F. H. May 

Crommelin 50 

92. A Woman of the World. F. 

Mabel Robinson 50 

93. The Baffled Conspirators. 

W. E. Norris 50 

94. Strange Crimes. W. Westall 50 

95. Dishonored. Theo. Gift 50 

96. The Mystery of M. Felix. 

B. L. Far jeon 50 

97. With Essex in Ireland. 

Hon. Emily Lawless 50 

98. Soldiers Three and Other 

Stories. Rudyard Kipling 50 

99. Whose was the Hand? M. E. 

Brad don 50 

100. The Blind Musician. Step- 

niak and William Westall 50 

101. The House on the Scar. 

Bertha Thomas 50 

102. The Wages of Sin. L. Malet 50 

103. The Phantom ’Rickshaw. 

Rudyard Kipling 50 

104. The Love of a Lady. Annie 

Thomas 50 


No. cts. 

105. How Came He Dead? J. 

Fitzgera d Molloy 50 

106. The Vicomte’s Bride. Esme 

Stuart 50 

107. A Reverend Gentleman. 

J. Maclaren Cobban 50 

108. Notes from the ‘News.’ 

James Payn 50 

109. The Keeper of the Keys. 

F. W. Robinson 50 

110. The Scudamores. F. C. 

Philips and C. J. Wills 50 

111. The Confessions of a 

Woman. Mabel Collins. . 50 

112. Sowing the Wind. E- Lynn 

Linton 50 

114. Margaret Byng. F. C. 

Philips 50 

115. For One and the World. 

M. Betham-Ed w ards 10 

116. Princess Sunshine Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 50 

117. Sloane Square Scandal. 

Annie Thomas. 50 

118. The Night of the 3d Ult. 

H. F. Wood 50 

119. Quite Another Story. 

Jean Ingelow 50 

120. Heart of Gold. L T. Meade 50 

121. The Word and the Will. 


122. Dumps. Mrs. Louisa Parr. . 50 

123. The Black Box Murder. 

By the man who discovered 
the murderer 50 

124. The Great Mill St. Mys- 

tery. Adeline Sergeant 50 

125. Between Life and Death. 

Frank Barrett 50 

126. Name and Fame. Adeline 

Sergeant and Ewing Lester 50 

127. Dramas of Life. G. R. 

Sims 50 

128. Lover or Friend? Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 50 

129. Famous or Infamous. Ber- 

tha Thomas 50 

130. The House of Halliwell. 

Mrs. Henry Wood 50 

131. Ruffino. Ouida !0 

132. Alas 1 Rhoda Broughton. . . 10 


134. The Demoniac. W. Besant to 

135. Brave Heart and True. 

Florence Mariwat 50 

136. Lady Maude’s Mania. G. 

Manville Fenn 50 

137. Marcia. W. E. Norris 50 

138. Wormwood. Marie Corelli. 50 

139. The Honorable Miss. L. 

T. Meade 50 

140. A BitterBirthright. Dora 

Russell 50 


141. A Double Knot. G. M. Fenn 50 

142. A Hidden Foe. G. A- Henty 50 

143. Urith. S. Baring Gould. . . 50 

144. Grayspoint. Mrs. J. H. 50 

Riddell 50 

145. A Mint of Money. G. M. 50 

Fenn 50 



COLGATE'S 


SOAPS & 
PERFUMES 


To Americans it is a strange sight to see a large field planted witl 
rose bushes, in long, straight rows, very much as corn is cultivated ii 
this country. 

Yet there are hundreds of fields in Southern France, like the on( 
shown in the above picture, which bear no less than 180,000 lbs or 9< 
tons of roses each year, for Colgate & Co. 

As the perfume of a flower is more fragrant in the early mbrning 
great care is exercised to secure the roses from only those farmers wh< 
gather their flowers early in the morning, before the dew has dried fron 
the leaves, and the hot sun drawn off the perfume. 

It is this attention to the minutest detail in obtaining only th< 
chomest kind of perfume, and the best of materials, which has secured fo: 
Colgate & Co. the highest awards at World Expositions, and gives un 
rivalled superiority to their Soaps and Perfumes, the favorite of whiol 

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